The Rest of the Family
by dust on the wind
Summary: Newkirk once claimed to have nine brothers and sisters. His mates didn't really believe it. But as it happens, it was true. Chapter 20: Brothers
1. Esk Road

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

_A response to Kirarakim's "More than just Mavis" challenge; the basis being to assume that when Newkirk claims to have nine brothers and sisters ("Go Light On The Heavy Water"), he's actually telling the truth..._

* * *

Mavis came walking down Esk Road with the brisk walk of a young woman who has no time to waste in dawdling. She nodded to old Mr Cawbey as he tottered past on his way to the off-licence, and agreed it was a nice day for it, but she didn't stop. Once you started chatting to Mr Cawbey, you could forget about getting anything else done that day. Talking to him was wearing; the poor old codger was deaf as a post, and thanks to a near miss during the worst of the Blitz, Mavis' hearing wasn't so good, either. So she excused herself before he got well started, and went on her way.

She paused for a moment at the front of Number Twenty-Seven. It was almost two weeks since she'd been to see her mother; her last visit had ended in such a terrible row between her parents that Mavis had deliberately stayed away longer than usual. But she'd had a letter from Peter, and she knew Mam would want to read it. Anyway, it was quite likely Dad had gone off again, to wherever it was he sloped off when life at Esk Road got uncomfortable. He had another woman somewhere; Mavis was sure of it.

Probably more than one. The Newkirk men liked to spread their investments around. Even Noel, who had just turned nine at Christmas, had a whole string of girls languishing over him. Arthur didn't seem interested yet, but Harry was notorious around Stepney, and for quite a distance beyond. As for Peter, he might be incarcerated in a prisoner of war camp in the middle of Germany, but Mavis had no doubt he'd have found some way to come to grips with the enemy, as long as the enemy was female.

She was still hesitating, when a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream from across the road alerted her to the approach of her two youngest sisters.

"Margaret – Lilly – pack it in." Mavis's reprimand rebounded from the terrace houses opposite, bringing the two little girls to an immediate stop. They gazed at her wide-eyed.

"She's back," observed Lilly. "Told you so."

"Hello, Mavis. You back, then?" said Margaret brightly. Of the two, she was the one you had to keep one eye out for. Mavis always knew where she stood with Lilly; generally nowhere. But Margaret had the art of social dissembling down pat. Or to put it another way, she waited till you weren't paying attention, then put the boot in.

"Not to see you two. Or hear you," replied Mavis. "You're an absolute disgrace, the pair of you. What's all that racket for?"

"Just practicing, for when the Germans invade," explained Margaret coolly. "Lilly's going to shriek at them, then while they're looking to see what all the fuss is about, I'll sneak up behind them and whack 'em with the coal shovel."

"Oh, well, as long as you've got a good reason," sighed Mavis. "Off you go, then."

She went on into the house, down the narrow hallway to the tiny kitchen at the back. Her mood lifted when she saw the room seemed to contain more people than it actually had space for. It probably meant Dad had gone off again; when he was home, his kids were generally elsewhere.

Mam sat at one end of the table, shelling peas. At the other end, Gwenneth, looking half-asleep, lolled with her elbows on the table, rousing herself occasionally to snap at one or other of the twins. From all indications, she'd stayed out late the night before. She was starting to do that too often, these days. There were just too many ways for a pretty girl of nineteen to entertain herself in London after blackout. Still, she'd be called up soon, she might as well get it out of her system.

Arthur and Alice were supposed to be doing homework, but that was just an excuse to hang around, listening to their elders talking, and adding their own opinions. Noel, the youngest of the family, was sitting on the back doorstep, trying to prevent the cat from escaping. Noel never had much luck with cats, they inevitably viewed him with deep mistrust, and took the earliest opportunity to scarper. But he never seemed to get discouraged.

The result was chaos, barely contained. And half the family wasn't even there. Peter was in Germany, of course. Kathleen had joined the Land Girls, and had been sent to Lincolnshire; from her letters, you'd think the entire national potato crop was dependent on her efforts alone. Lilly and Margaret had run off somewhere, doubtless trying to work out how to dig a tank trap in Bickerstaff Lane. Assuming the invasion ever actually took place, catching their very own Panzer would certainly raise the family prestige.

As for Harry - well, nobody ever really knew what Harry got up to.

"You missed the old bat," announced Gwen, looking up as Mavis appeared in the doorway.

Mavis didn't need to ask; the whole family knew who the old bat was. "Thought Gran was laid up," she remarked.

"She's always laid up when it suits her," replied Gwen spitefully. "Then as soon as she hears one of us is disgracing the family name again, suddenly her gout's all better, and she's back on the broomstick."

Mavis sat down opposite the twins, so that Mam was on her left. "What's Harry done now?"

"Don't pick on your brother," said Mam. "He means well." After forty years living in Esk Road, she still retained the soft Glamorgan lilt of her childhood. She stood up and went to put the kettle on, while Mavis, without thinking, took over the peas.

"We had the Old Bill round," put in Noel. He'd be boasting about it at school for the next fortnight; if his schoolmates thought the coppers had called to see him, instead of his brother, so much the better.

"Again?" sighed Mavis.

"Just a misunderstanding," put in Mrs Newkirk, as she warmed the teapot. She had no illusions about any of her boys, but it was a mother's duty to defend her offspring, even from each other.

"Anyway, as far as Gran's concerned, Harry can do no wrong," Gwen went on bitterly. "Just like Peter. The sun shines out of both their arses."

Mam turned her head to look at Gwen over the top of her spectacles. "You watch your language, young lady." Gwen rolled her eyes, and slouched back in her chair.

"Gwennie's got a new boyfriend," remarked Alice. "Gran doesn't like it."

"He's a Yank," added Arthur. He'd given up on his essay on _Dombey and Son_, which he'd only read three pages of anyway. He was now drawing up a plan for defending the Crown and Anchor from the German army by punching holes in barrels of petrol, rolling them down Coalhatch Street towards the approaching enemy, and setting fire to them by shooting Molotov cocktails from a home-made trebuchet. Arthur wasn't yet old enough to drink at the Crown, but he wanted to make sure it was still around when the time came.

"Gwen only likes him 'cos he can get nylon stockings for her," Alice went on, in a rather petulant manner. Alice hadn't yet outgrown her adolescent gawkiness, and she was inclined to be jealous of Gwennie, who hadn't ever gone through an awkward phase.

"Yes, and you can keep your grubby fingers off them, miss," Gwen snapped back. "They're not for little girls."

"That'll do." Mam didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Anyone who disobeyed when she used that tone of voice did so at their peril. She returned to the table with the teapot in its knitted cosy, and began to pour. "Mavis, did you hear from your brother this week?"

She asked the question in a neutral tone, like it was just a casual enquiry, but Mavis wasn't fooled, nor Gwen. Mam had always tried not to play favourites, but Peter was her oldest boy, the only one who'd been born before the last war took her husband away to the battlefields of France. Albert Newkirk had returned home at last, but something about the trenches had changed him. He'd grown increasingly erratic and unreliable, disappearing from home sometimes for weeks or months at a time. Mam hadn't intentionally turned to Peter for support, but from the moment her seven-year-old son had set eyes on his new baby sister Mavis, he'd known Mam would need his help; and without a word he'd stepped up to the mark.

Even when his father had thrown him out at the age of fifteen, he'd continued to send money home, and visited as often as he could, to keep an eye on things.

Without saying a word Mavis took Peter's letter out of her handbag and held it out.

"Oh, read it out, love," said Mam, just as if she wouldn't have preferred to take it away to her own room for a private read, and a private weep.

Mavis smiled as she extracted the letter from its envelope, and unfolded the thin sheets.

"My throat's a bit sore, Mam," she said. "It's hard on the voice, being on the buses. You have to shriek, or the passengers don't hear you. Arthur, you read it, there's a good lad."

Arthur suppressed a grin as he took the letter, and Mavis shifted a little in her seat, so her good ear faced towards the twins. Even though she had read it through a couple of times, she wanted to hear Arthur. Of all the family, he was the most like Peter in looks and manner; if they couldn't have Peter, letting Artie read his words was the next best thing.

_Dear Mavis,_

_Well, they say it's nearly the end of winter, but you'd never know it round here. It's been snowing for days. My mate Carter - I told you all about him before - he says it gets a lot colder back at Crabapple Junction, wherever that is. I don't think I'll ever go there to find out. Round here is quite chilly enough for me._

_While I'm on the subject, can you let Arthur know that whatever it was he wanted me to ask Carter about, the censors didn't like it. There were so many holes in the letter, we could have used it as a colander._

"What did you ask him about?" demanded Noel, who had abandoned the cat to come and lean over his brother's arm.

"I just wanted his opinion on putting soap in petrol bombs to make the stuff stick," replied Arthur. "Smudger says egg whites are good, but we can't get any. And dried eggs don't work. We tried."

"Where'd you get the petrol?" Noel asked, but the question went unanswered.

"Arthur, I've told you before, I won't have you making petrol bombs in the house," said Mam crossly. "What you do at Smudger's house is his parents' problem. I just finished papering upstairs, I'll not have the place burned down."

Arthur snickered, then sobered up and continued.

_The Christmas parcel turned up at last, two months late. It was very much appreciated, especially the fruit cake, which was delicious. At least, so I was told. I didn't even get a smell of it - Sergeant Schultz decided it was suspicious, and took it away for examination. He reported back later that it was found to be harmless after all. He had a plum pudding Rita sent, too._

"That Rita's still got her claws in, then," observed Gwen, a scowl spoiling her face for a few seconds.

"She's nice. I like her," said Noel, pushing in between the twins.

Alice shoved him back. "You just would. Go on, Artie."

_If Schultz had anything to do with it, I'd waste away to nothing. But you don't have to worry, Mavis. We've got one of the best cooks in the entire army in our barracks - Louis LeBeau. French, of course. I never let on how much I enjoy his cooking. He's got a high enough opinion of himself already. But I'm really going to miss him when we finally get out of here. Not just for the food, either. He's a good little bloke._

"Does that mean Peter's coming home soon?" Noel interrupted again, wide-eyed.

"Probably not, Noel, love," said Mrs Newkirk.

_It's funny when you think about it, Mavis. You take this war, it's just rotten all through. But if it hadn't started, I'd never have ended up here, and I'd never have met LeBeau or Carter. Or Kinch. You'd like him, Mavis, he's one of the quiet ones, but whenever things are as bad as they can get, Kinch is the one who always knows what to do. _

_And then there's Colonel Hogan. I never got on with officers before - couldn't see the point of some jumped-up, full-of-himself so and so setting up to give orders that made no sense. But Colonel Hogan's different. He doesn't act like he's better than the rest of us, but somehow when he gives an order, you just go along with it. And it nearly always turns out to be right. _

_He knows how to get things done, too. Anything we need, or any problems, he goes to the Kommandant and gets it sorted. Sometimes without the Kommandant even knowing. (I'd tell you what I think of Kommandant Klink, but he gets to read our letters before they go out, so maybe I'd better not.)_

"What a stupid name," said Alice. "Klink."

"Stinky Klinky," added Noel, giggling.

"Oh, shut up, Noel."

"Mam, she pushed me!"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"One more word from either of you, and it's early bed, and no supper." Mam was standing no nonsense.

_So you can tell Mum not to worry about me, I've landed on my feet as usual. It's not exactly a holiday camp, but there's plenty of blokes worse off. And there's ways of getting hold of a few little extras, if you know how to work a dodge or two._

"Trust our Peter," said Gwen tartly; but her lips twitched slightly as she tried not to laugh.

"Oh, you're all the same for that," replied Mam. "If any one of you got lost in the middle of the Sahara, you'd have a market stall set up in ten minutes, selling sand to the natives. It must come from your father."

"At least he was good for something," muttered Arthur. Mavis gave him a reproving look, disregarding the suppressed giggles from her sisters. Artie smirked back, and went on.

_Well, it's nearly time for lights out, Mavis, so I'll have to sign off now. Give my love to the kids, and tell Harry to look out for Mum, or I'll sort him out when I get home. I'll try to send a note off to Kathleen in the next few days, if I have the time, but if you're writing, you might let her know I haven't forgotten about her. She's a real little trooper, to take on that kind of work. You take care of yourself, and watch out for Gwennie as well. And tell Mum - well, never mind that. She already knows._

_All my love,_

_Peter._

There was a moment of silence. Mam took off her glasses and cleaned them, keeping her eyes on the task.

Artie folded the letter, and returned it to its envelope. "He never says anything about what he gets up to," he remarked.

"I expect it's not very interesting," said Alice. "I mean, it's a prison, isn't it? There can't be much to do."

Noel leaned across the table. "If it was me, I'd start digging a tunnel."

"You already did, in the coal cellar," Alice snapped.

"That wasn't a tunnel. That was a bunker," Noel protested.

"Now, then, you three." Mam had put her glasses back on, and was herself again. "Noel, you were playing with that cat all afternoon, go upstairs and wash your hands. Twins, put your books away, and go and tidy up. Mavis, will you be staying for tea, love?"

"I can't, Mam," said Mavis. "I'm working the late shift."

"I don't like you being on those buses at night," observed Mrs Newkirk. But she let the matter go. After all, there was a war on; someone had to do the job..

Mavis went back along Esk Road towards the high street, and the bus which would take her to the depot. She was thinking about Peter's letter, and about all the previous letters since he'd been a prisoner in Luftstalag 13. When the bus arrived, she hurried upstairs, took a seat at the front, then took the letter out and read through it again.

Artie was right. Peter never said what he was doing with himself. It wasn't as if he was the kind to sit around doing nothing. He had a restless energy, and a need to be occupied with something. Yet in one letter after another, it was the same; plenty of description of place and people, but no hint of any activities.

Of course, it was a prison camp, there might not be much to tell. But Mavis was beginning to wonder. Peter always had some scheme or other going, before the war. If he was staying true to character, then he must have something to keep him busy.

On the other hand, it might be something he couldn't mention in a letter the Germans were going to read. For instance, he might be planning an escape attempt. Mavis's heart beat a little faster at the thought. She missed Peter dreadfully; but if he wasn't free, at least he was safe. If he did get away from the prison camp, but something happened before he reached safety...

That possibility was more than she thought she could bear. She gazed out of the window. It was still light, and the streets were fairly crowded; in London, it was business as usual, in spite of nightly air raids. They took it more or less for granted now; but in some ways, life in Esk Road was more precarious than in Luftstalag 13. If they were anxious about Peter, he must sometimes be frantic with worry about them.

Mavis straightened up, and pressed her lips together. Had she known it, she looked very like her mother just then. The entrepreneurial spirit in the Newkirk family might have come from their father, but they'd inherited something else from Mam: the willpower to face up to whatever came their way.

If there was some scheme going on over there in Stalag 13, Peter would be right in the thick of it, with the mates he talked about in his letters. And Mavis was sure, whatever it was, it would work out.

It might take a long time, but one day Peter would come home to Esk Road; and his family would be waiting for him.


	2. Peter

Three years had come and gone since Mavis had last seen her older brother; weary, stubborn years, such long years that she sometimes wondered if anything she remembered from before had really happened. That day was real, though. She was sure she hadn't lost a single detail.

She had even kept the postcard Peter had sent asking her to meet him, a garishly coloured photograph of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. It was a joke, of course; for the last year he'd been no further away than Earl's Court. But before he'd found a more or less permanent place on the bill at the Excelsior Theatre, while he was still travelling round with that disreputable circus troupe, he had got into the habit of buying postcards in every town they passed through, and sending them to friends and relations from the next stopover; or more often than not, from somewhere at the other end of the country. Every so often, there'd be a card in the mail: a picture of Pevensey Bay, postmarked Stoke-on-Trent, or a scenic view of the hills around Ullswater with a note on the back: _Well, I can't say I like Cornwall much..._

He still had a pile of them he'd never used. There was no telephone at 27 Esk Road, and Peter never came round home in case the old man was there. If he wanted to have a chat to Mavis, he would dig out one of those postcards, scribble a few words on the back and drop it in the mail.

It never seemed to occur to him that Mavis's time wasn't her own during the day. She'd had to promise a lot of favours to the other girls at the shop so they'd cover for her. But she wouldn't dream of letting Peter down, and at one o'clock there she was, outside a tea shop on Oxbridge Street, her dark-blue coat pulled close to keep out the dampness of the December air.

"Will you have a butcher's at Mister Newkirk?" was the greeting she gave him as he arrived, ten minutes later. "We are flash, aren't we? Trying to impress someone?"

"Leave off, Mavis," he replied with a grin. "A bloke has to look his best when he's having lunch with the prettiest girl..."

"Mmm, is that right? Must tell your Rita you said that."

The chances of her exchanging even two words with that young woman were extremely low, but Peter rose to the bait anyway. "Ah, no, you see, Rita's different," he began hastily.

Mavis sniffed, not bothering to hide her scorn. There was no love lost between Peter's sisters and any of his girlfriends. Rita had stuck on longer than most, but this did her no favours in Mavis's view.

"Are we going in here?" she asked, looking up at the tea shop window. "Bit pricey, Pete. One and six for a cup of tea and a stale sandwich."

"You're having more than just a sandwich," said Peter. "It's my treat, Mave. I got paid last week, and I'm looking at some more regular work coming up. I'll tell you about it later. You can bring me up to date first. How's Mum?"

Mavis pursed up her lips. "Could be worse. Could be better. Dad's back home again."

"Might have known," muttered Peter. He waited till they'd got a table before he went on. "So how long has the miserable old sod been there?"

"Turned up on the eighth of September, drunk as a lord," replied Mavis. "And he hasn't sobered up yet."

"Well, that's nice, innit?" Peter rolled his eyes. "Still, at least the kiddies are evacuated, so..."

"Oh, they're on the way back," said Mavis. "Auntie Gladys wrote Mam, said she couldn't keep them any more."

"Don't tell me." Peter leaned back in his chair. "Our Arthur decided Shropshire needed livening up, right?"

"No, the twins were both pretty good, only they set fire to the Anderson shelter, and that was an accident."

"Typical. Crystal Palace all over again. Yes, I know, Mavis, nothing was ever proved, but it can't be a coincidence that the pavilion burned down the same night after the twins went out there to see the dinosaurs in the park," said Peter grimly. "All right, if it wasn't Artie..."

With a sigh, Mavis explained. "Harry had a blazing row with Auntie the first night, and walked out. He fetched up home a couple of days later. Noel chummed up with some family from up north. Not nice enough for Auntie, they weren't - it wasn't the language she minded, it was the lice. And Maggie thought the postman looked suspicious, so she and Lilly made some booby traps. They wrecked the vicar's bicycle, and some old A.R.P. warden with a dicky ticker ended up in hospital. Stop laughing, Pete, it's not funny. Gladys nearly took a fit, and wrote Mam to come and fetch them. Of course, with Dad home, Mam couldn't get away, so Kath's gone. She got laid off from the hotel."

Peter cast up his eyes. "Not again?"

"I don't think she's cut out for a chambermaid," said Mavis.

"I'm beginning to wonder if she's cut out for anything," muttered Peter.

The arrival of the waitress to take their order interrupted the conversation, and Mavis changed the subject. "So what's this new job of yours, then?" she asked.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Later, Mavis. It'll keep."

It wasn't like him to dodge a simple question. Mavis looked up quickly, searching his face, and guessed at once what he was so reluctant to tell her.

"You've been called up," she faltered.

He gave a shrug, trying to pass it off. "Well, it was bound to happen. Don't make a fuss, Mavis. We're all going to have to go, sooner or later, right?"

"When?" Her voice caught slightly in her throat.

"I'm reporting tomorrow. Put it off as long as I could. Now for pity's sake, don't start making a big tragedy of it, Mave. At any rate, don't you start howling, we'll have everyone looking at us. It'll all be fine, you'll see."

"I'm not howling." Mavis sniffled, and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. "Sod you, Peter, why d'you have to be so bleeding calm about it?"

"Because I've got it all worked out," said Peter. "Look, there's no way out of it. I don't fancy hiding under the bed for the next couple of years, and I don't like my chances of convincing them that stage magician is a reserved occupation. So unless by some miracle I fail the medical, I'm in for it."

"Peter..."

"No, just listen a minute, Mavis. I've been thinking about this for a couple of months, ever since the war started. I'm not keen on the army, but if I get the chance, I'll see if I can't get into the RAF."

"What? You want to fly planes? Leave it out, Pete, you wouldn't have a hope..."

He gave a short laugh. "I know that. Anyway, that's much too dodgy. No, what I had in mind was a ground job - aircraft mechanic, something like that. If I tell 'em I know a bit about engines..."

"Which you don't," Mavis interrupted.

"I can learn, once I get the job. And chances are I'll get a posting at some airfield in England." Peter tapped one finger on the tablecloth. "You know the only advice the old man ever gave me was, _Don't ever let the buggers send you to fight in France_. I can't argue with him on that."

"When are you going to tell Mam?" asked Mavis, after a few moments.

Peter shook his head. "Don't see myself getting the chance to see her for the next few days, Mave."

"You want me to tell her? Oh, thanks, Pete, thanks a lot. She'll go spare." Mavis scowled at him.

He gave a slight, apologetic shrug. "Well, I can't hardly go round Esk Road, can I? Not with the old man there. She'll understand. Anyway, they won't send me off right away, I'll have a few weeks to get myself sorted before I leave for training. And I'm bound to get leave, once I'm posted. I'll see her first chance I get, one way or another."

He had spoken confidently enough, but things hadn't been quite so easy. In the first place, someone in the War Office pulled their finger out for once; Peter's notification reached him before the week was out, and he barely had time to send Mavis another postcard letting her know, before he had to leave for basic training.

In the second place, the training base was in Scotland; too far, with travel restrictions becoming ever more stringent, for him to make the trip back to London on a three-day pass. And even when they moved him on, it was scarcely better; two months of mechanics training at an air base near Durham, before he got his posting. And the news on that was even worse.

_Well, Mavis, it looks like I won't be able to follow the old man's advice after all._

That was all Peter said, in the very brief note he sent the night before he left, on the reverse side of a very pretty view of a village in the Cotswolds. Mavis, who remembered every word he'd said, the last time she saw him, had no difficulty working out what he meant. They were sending him to France.

Only a few weeks later, France surrendered; and as in so many homes all over Britain, fear and anxiety took up residence at 27 Esk Road. Mam, who always kept busy, became almost frenetic, doing anything and everything that came her way, to keep herself from fretting over her boy; the children were hushed to silence as they waited for news, unable to believe that perhaps news would never come.

The fleet of small ships set out for Dunkirk, and returned; but there was no word from Peter; and Albert Newkirk, who had never once shown affection towards his oldest son, went on such an almighty bender that it took three policemen and a redoubtable old dowager from the W.V.S. to bring him home. Two days later he was gone again, and wasn't seen in Esk Road for the rest of the year.

Messages could always be left for him, at the Moor's Head in Croydon; that was where Arthur went, running all the way, to let him know the Red Cross had written. Peter was alive, and safe; but he had been captured by the advancing German forces while trying to reach the coast.

It wasn't exactly good news, but so much better than what they'd been dreading; the atmosphere at home, and in fact all along the street, lightened so rapidly, everyone almost grew dizzy with it. Only Mam stayed quiet. From the moment the letter arrived, she sat still, a single point of silence amongst the noise. Presently she rose, went up to her bedroom, and closed the door.

Mavis waited a few minutes, then followed her; and for an hour, while the rest of the family celebrated downstairs, she held her mother in her arms, and let her weep away the grief she had kept to herself for so many weeks.

"He'll be home soon, Mam," she whispered. "Even if the war doesn't end soon, Peter won't stay cooped up in some prison camp. He'll get away. You'll see."

But the year struggled to an end, and two more years; the war showed no sign of ending, and Peter didn't come home.

* * *

_Footnote: The Pavilion at Crystal Palace Park__ burned down in November 1936. However, the concrete dinosaurs, dating from the 1850s, are still there._


	3. Gwenneth

There was something in the air at the Blue Moon Club that night; partly romance, partly an indefinite fatalism born of the knowledge that life was too fleeting to waste a moment of it.

Captain Eddie Ross sat back in his chair, taking a little quiet pleasure in watching one of his pals dancing with the prettiest girl in the room. Dancing, and perhaps flirting a little, but nothing serious. Daniels wouldn't cross the line, not with another man's girl; and as Eddie couldn't dance with her himself, he didn't mind seeing her take the floor with other partners. Not that he could have stopped her; this young lady had a mind of her own.

Two months after Eddie had first laid eyes on Gwen Newkirk, he still couldn't quite believe it. He'd always been lucky with women back in the States, and the English girls were no different; if anything, they were more approachable, eager to escape for a few hours from the fear, anxiety and sheer drudgery of the war. And with so many of their own boys in overseas service, a good-looking American airman, carrying an air of affluence and sophistication, and with a slight limp to hint at courage under fire, need have no fear of being lonely.

Of course there was nothing in it; just a little fun, a few evenings out at dance halls or clubs, an occasional dinner date. There were girls out there willing to go further, but Eddie wasn't out for complications. Nor was he looking for any kind of emotional attachment. He'd be back with his squadron, flying bombing missions over Germany again, just as soon as the doctors gave him the okay; he wasn't about to risk breaking some girl's heart, or his own, when the inevitable separation came.

But all his good intentions had gone by the board, when at a matinee showing of _King Arthur Was A Gentleman _at the Pavilion Cinema, the little dark-haired usherette had taken a rowdy party of USAAF servicemen to task. Eddie had gone back the next day to apologise, and had somehow found the nerve to ask the young lady out to dinner. She had turned him down, and had continued to turn him down for the following three weeks. In fact, if he hadn't finally gained her sympathy by playing up his war wound, he'd probably still be getting the brush-off.

Right now she was enjoying herself. Will Daniels was a good dancer, and a nice kid. All the girls liked him, but any young woman who thought she might win him over was going to be disappointed; his heart belonged entirely to his fiancée back in New Jersey. Some girls took this as a challenge, but Will seemed impervious. He liked dancing with Gwen, as she did with him, both knowing no false hopes were being raised. But he was perfectly happy to take the floor with any other girl.

Eddie was pretty sure that at the end of this number Daniels would bring Gwen back, and then go and try his luck with the little blonde on the far side of the room; and sure enough, as soon as the music paused, the young lieutenant escorted his partner to her seat. He hesitated briefly, as if waiting for permission, then grinned.

"I'll just leave you two lovebirds alone," he said, by way of excuse, and strolled off.

"Enjoying yourself, gorgeous?" asked Eddie.

"Not much," replied Gwen coolly. "You know, I could have been at home right now, sitting with Mam and listening to _Saturday Night Theatre_ on the World Service."

"Well, if you want to know, I can tell you right now - the butler did it." Eddie spoke lightly enough. He was never quite sure where he stood with her. Any attempt at closeness invariably met with the same flippancy.

"Now, you see? That's why we don't have a butler." Gwen glanced sideways at him, bright green eyes shielded by long dark lashes. "Well, that and not wanting him to have to share a room with Arthur and Noel. Servants can be so particular about that sort of thing." She slipped easily into a perfect upper-class accent as she spoke; she had a talent for mimicry.

He tilted his head, smiling. "I've got to meet this family of yours sometime, babe. Listen, how about we get out of here? I want to talk, and this joint's no place to have a conversation."

"Ooh, sounds serious," murmured Gwen. "Something important, is it?"

"It could be," replied Eddie nonchalantly.

She turned her eyes towards Daniels, who had managed to get himself a seat beside the little blonde. "Oh, well, it looks as though I've lost my young man," she remarked after a few seconds. "So if you're off, I might as well come along."

It always came as a surprise to Eddie how dark and quiet the streets of London were in the blackout. After the buzz of music and voices inside the Blue Moon Club, it was almost enough to make him light-headed. Without thinking, he took Gwen's hand.

"It's a beautiful night," he said. "Why don't we skip the bus, and walk a little way?"

He could hear the laughter in her voice, even though he couldn't see her. "Can I trust you to behave yourself?"

"Completely."

She gave a soft, disappointed sigh. "That's what I thought."

They walked in silence for a while, their way illuminated only by the shielded beam of Eddie's flashlight, or the narrow headlamps of an occasional passing bus. There was no moon, and so far no sign of any German bombers; for once, the night sky held nothing but a scatter of faint, far-distant stars, visible only by reason of the blackout.

"Well, for someone who wants to talk, you don't say much, do you?" said Gwen at last.

"I was just thinking about how unlikely it is, you and me being here," he replied. "Kind of funny, isn't it? The whole world had to go to war, just so I could spend ten minutes walking along a pitch dark street holding your hand." He fell silent for another half minute, then he breathed in, and his fingers tightened on hers. "I'm going before the medical board on Monday morning. If I pass, I'll be required to report immediately to my squadron."

"Will you pass?"

"I'm pretty sure I will."

For a minute or so, neither of them spoke

"So, you'll be going back to Hampshire," said Gwen at last.

"That's not so far from London," Eddie pointed out.

"It's a long way from West Yorkshire or the Midlands," she retorted. "It won't be long now, and I'll be called up for war work. Chances are they'll pack me off to a munitions factory in Leeds or Birmingham, or some such place. That's what always happens to us working class birds. The nice jobs are kept for girls who went to the right schools. Not that I mind, it's just what you have to do, but..." She shrugged, and let the rest of the remark die away.

They walked on, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. Eddie had something more to say; he just wasn't sure whether he should say it. But he might not get the chance again for some time. He might never get the chance at all.

"I think I might be in love with you, Gwen."

"You think so? Not sure, then?" Gwen's voice caught a little over the words, but that might have just been the cold.

"A man can't be sure of anything these days," said Eddie. "But if it ain't love, then it's something pretty close."

"Well, you'd better have a good long think about it," she replied sharply. "Because you might not be sure, but I bloody well am."

He stopped in his tracks, and she was obliged by the clasp of his hand to do the same.

"Gwen..." he began, but he couldn't think of any words to express what he was feeling. So he kissed her instead, very gently; and that kiss told her everything.

* * *

"There's no point in getting yourself done up like a dog's dinner, Gwen," said Mavis, gazing at her younger sister with disapproval. "You want to be neat and tidy, but it's the labour exchange, not a theatre party."

It was her day off, and she had called into Esk Road, partly to wish Gwen luck at her interview, but mostly to look her over before she went. She wasn't impressed, and didn't hesitate to say so. That was what sisters were for.

"First impressions matter," Gwen replied, as she inspected her eyebrows in Mam's dressing-table mirror. "Either I make them think I'm the right sort, or I'll spend the rest of this bleedin' war in the West Midlands, making anti-tank mines, and that'll do my fingernails no good at all. I just want to improve my chances of staying in town."

"What, just because your young man's down on the south coast, and you want to be able to spend your weekends with him?" Mavis folded her arms, and shook her head in disapproval.

It always got fair up Gwennie's nose, when Mavis put on her older sister face. In any case, Eddie was a sore subject at the moment; she hadn't heard from him for nearly a month. She didn't admit even to herself how worried she was.

He was just busy, that was all. He'd write as soon as he got the chance.

"Look, it's only what Peter did, when he joined up," she pointed out, in answer to Mavis. "Why is it, when he told a few stories to get the job he wanted, that was fine, but if I want to make the best of things..."

"I'm not sure I like your attitude, Gwen. There's a war on, you know, we've all got to do our bit."

"Oh, thank you very much, Miss Unfit-For-Service," Gwen snapped back. "If all of us were deaf in one ear, some of us wouldn't be getting out of it so easy, would we?"

Mavis went pink, closed her lips very tightly and left the room; and she didn't utter a word when Gwen came downstairs to tell Mam she was off. Nor had Mrs Newkirk much to say, except that she didn't much care for Gwen's new hairstyle.

Gwen knew she had crossed the line with that snipe at Mavis, who was sensitive about her loss of hearing. It was too late to take it back, but she left Esk Road in a bad mood, and occupied her time on the walk to the labour exchange in planning the dignified response she would come out with, the next time her sister came over all sancti-bloody-monious.

As it turned out, all the trouble she'd gone to had been pointless. The woman who interviewed her took one look at the Stepney address, and made up her mind on the spot.

"There's a shortage of unskilled industrial workers," she informed Gwen coolly. "Armaments, manufacture heavy machinery, or if you feel that's below your touch, we might be able to find you a place in a cannery or a clothing factory. Or there's the Women's Land Army," she added, her eyes on Gwen's perfect fingernails, as if imagining how they would stand up to a month of farm labour.

"Is that it?" said Gwen, after a pause.

The woman raised her eyebrows. "You could apply for the ATS, but I think you'll find civilian war work more congenial. You would be much more at home among girls who...who went to the same kind of school as you did."

Gwen looked her in the eye, saw how useless argument would be, and started arguing anyway. But it made no difference; she'd been classified, and that was that. She finally opted for the ATS, just to be annoying.

"If you insist," said the woman indifferently. "But it might be some time before you have to report for training. In the meantime, you had better make yourself useful by accepting other work as directed. You'll hear from us."

_And that's me put in my place,_ thought Gwen, as she left the employment office. _I wonder how I'll like living in Northumberland, or Cumbria, or the Orkneys..._

She walked home the long way, through Stepney Gardens, and got home just before tea. The postman had been; a handful of letters lay on the mat inside the front door. Gwen rifled through them. Still nothing from Eddie.

Lilly and Margaret came racing down the stairs. "Anything for me?" panted Lilly.

"Why would anyone write to you, miss?" Gwen snapped back. In fact, there was a letter for Lilly, in a grubby envelope addressed in a boyish hand, liberally speckled with ink blots. Margaret spotted it, snatched it from Gwen's fingers, and fled with Lilly hard on her heels.

"Give it back, Maggie." Her wail of fury might have served as an air-raid siren.

"Don't fuss over it, Lilly," muttered Gwen. "He'll only let you down in the end."

She went on upstairs to the little room she shared with Alice, and sat on the bed, still wearing her hat and coat. Her eyes were stinging; she pulled out her handkerchief and carefully dabbed the first teardrops away. Not for a moment would she let anyone know she'd been crying.

He'd lost interest, of course. Everyone knew what Americans were like. A new girl every week, that was how they carried on; and there were plenty of girls around, even in Hampshire. He'd have no reason to remember telling a silly little nineteen-year-old from Stepney that he was in love.

It hurt a bit, of course, but not as much as the alternative; the only other explanation she could come up with for Eddie's long silence was too much for her to contemplate.

_What if he's been shot down?_

She clenched her fingers tightly, digging the nails into the palms of her hands. Maybe it would be possible to find out. Maybe she could write to his commanding officer, or get in touch with Will Daniels.

No. She didn't want to know. Better to think he'd forgotten all about her; better to think those few moments in the blackout hadn't really meant anything. That was bearable, as long as she could keep thinking he was still alive.

_Silly of me, getting all done up for the labour exchange_, she thought. _As if it matters now, where they send me..._

* * *

_Notes:_

_King Arthur Was A Gentleman (1942): British comedy film directed by Maurice Vernel, and starring Arthur Askey. _

_ATS - Auxiliary Territorial Service; the women's section of the British Army during World War II_


	4. Correspondence

Dear Pete,

Thought you'd like to know I'm in Sheffield, doing some work for Lenny Stubbs.

Doris Bloomfield says to say hello.

Harry.

* * *

Dear Harry,

Glad to hear you're working. Lenny's not a bad chap. Very unlucky with the lads he has working for him, though. Most of them seem to end up doing a stretch in Pentonville. Still, I'm sure it's just a coincidence, and if not, at least it'd keep you out of the army.

Please pass on my warmest regards to Doris and her husband. Nice chap - I've never understood why they call him Joe the Butcher.

Pete.


	5. Behind Enemy Lines

It was never quiet at night in the woods. The daylight creatures might be snoozing in their burrows and nests, but their nocturnal cohabitants were busy enough; that included not only the guards on patrol around the prisoner-of-war camp, but also some of the prisoners, who had their own ways of getting in and out, and their own reasons for doing so.

Hidden in the heavy pine-scented shadows, two men waited.

"They should have been here by now," one of them muttered.

"Maybe they got lost," replied his diminutive companion.

The first man uttered a short laugh. "Or maybe they got picked up by a passing foot patrol." He moved a little way forward, eyes searching the darkness for any sign of motion.

"Newkirk, why do you always have to look on the bright side?"

"Can't help it, it's my naturally buoyant personality - " Newkirk broke off abruptly, and both men tensed, ready to flee if necessary. Then Newkirk, gesturing to his comrade to stay where he was, crept silently towards the source of the sounds which had caught his ear.

A movement between the trees ahead brought him to a halt, and he drew his pistol and advanced again.

"All right, stop right there," he said in a low voice.

There were two of them; the smaller and slighter of the two supporting the other, who seemed to be in a bad way. Newkirk felt a surge of irritation. He hadn't been warned one of the clients was hurt.

He moved a little closer. "When winter comes..."

"...can spring be far behind." It was the correct response, and Newkirk relaxed. He gave a short birdlike whistle to alert LeBeau, then went forward to help.

"What happened?" he asked. "Did you run into trouble?"

"No, it's his leg. Had a rough landing when we bailed out, and it's been getting worse ever since." The lieutenant's accent identified him as American. Both men were unshaven, their clothes threadbare and stained; they looked undernourished, and smelled of weeks of living rough.

"Better let him sit for a minute," said Newkirk. "He looks like he's about to drop."

Between them, they lowered the injured man to the ground. "It's okay," he murmured huskily. "I'm fine."

"I'm sure you are, mate," said Newkirk. "What's your name?"

"He's Ross," said the other. "I'm Sullivan." He looked to be in his early twenties; Ross was probably a few years older, although they were both so run down it was hard to be sure.

LeBeau came to join them. "_Qu'est-ce qui se passe_?"

"If you don't mind, LeBeau," Newkirk replied.

The Frenchman immediately repeated the question in English: "What's going on? Is he hurt?"

"So it seems." Newkirk didn't say any more, but Sullivan seemed to pick up on his annoyance.

"The folks who helped us out asked me to pass on a message," he said quickly. "They wanted to keep Eddie there for a few days, but the Gestapo are getting a little close, so they couldn't risk it. They said to tell you they'll be shutting up shop for a couple of weeks, till the heat's off. Sorry if it's a problem."

"Well, it can't be helped," sighed Newkirk. "We'll manage."

He kept his eyes on Ross, who was leaning back against a tree trunk with his eyes closed. "He doesn't look at all well, does he? How long since you were shot down?"

"Must be nearly seven weeks," replied Sullivan.

"And you managed to keep out of the Krauts' way all that time?" Newkirk whistled softly. No wonder the pair of them looked exhausted. "Mate, you're in the wrong line of work."

Sullivan gave a low chuckle. "You know of a better job, lead me to it." He was in a better state than Ross, but Newkirk didn't like the look of either of them.

He glanced at LeBeau, who had obviously come to the same assessment. "What d'you think, Louis?" he asked softly.

"I think we will have to carry this one," replied LeBeau.

Newkirk, contemplating the suggestion, shook his head. "It'd be easier if you weren't such a short-arse. You'd better take Sullivan back to camp, and send Kinch or Carter out to help with Ross."

"And if a patrol should come along?" said LeBeau.

"Then they'll do the carrying, won't they?" Newkirk turned back to Ross. "Don't waste time, LeBeau. Sooner you get moving, the sooner we'll get these two where it's safe."

LeBeau hesitated only a moment longer, before beckoning Sullivan to follow him, and slipping away into the darkness.

Ross appeared to be falling asleep. Hardly surprising, but not a good idea. Newkirk gave him a gentle shake. "You still awake, chum?"

"Uh-huh." The airman opened his eyes.

"Just stay with me for a bit, all right? My mate's gone for help. We're only a couple of minutes from home, so we'll have you there in no time. But you don't want to drop off in the meantime. Talk to me." Newkirk spoke sharply, as Ross closed his eyes again. "You're a captain, right? Where's your home base?"

"It's at Little Wenbrook...Hampshire," mumbled Ross.

"Don't think I know the place. Anywhere near Portsmouth? I spent a week there once," said Newkirk, more to keep the man talking than out of any desire for a chat. "Course, I'm a Londoner, myself."

"I'd never have guessed." Ross managed a tired smile. "I was based in London for a while. Took a bullet in the leg, had to go on detached service for six months while it healed up." He laughed, breathlessly. "Guess it didn't heal up as well as I thought."

"You mean, you put one over on the medical officer. You must be absolutely barmy, mate...I mean, Captain," said Newkirk.

"Call me Eddie."

"Peter." It wasn't military protocol, but considering the need to keep Ross talking, Newkirk thought it best to go along with it. He sat down beside the captain. "So, how did you like London, then, Eddie?"

"Great little city," murmured Eddie. "Real friendly."

"That's what all you Americans say," replied Newkirk dryly. "Mostly about the girls."

Eddie sighed. "Just one girl."

"Someone special, eh? Tell me about her. What's her name? Come on, Eddie, keep talking."

"She's beautiful," mumbled Eddie. "The most beautiful girl..."

His voice faded off again, and Newkirk gave him a gentle nudge. "I'm sure she is, chum. You won't find prettier girls anywhere than in London. It's the English air does it, you know. Go on, tell me more. Classy bird, is she?"

"You just bet she is."

"Sounds all right. Where'd you meet her?"

Before Eddie could reply, there was a rustle among the bushes. Newkirk tensed, rose on one knee, then relaxed. "Kinch - that was quick."

"How bad is he?" asked Kinch, stooping over Eddie. LeBeau was just behind him.

"Mostly just worn out, I think. Seven weeks they've been on the run," replied Newkirk. "Watch that leg, it's not too good."

Kinch gently examined the injured limb. "I don't think we should try to get him down the tunnel," he said. "We'd better go in through the wire. Carter's setting up a diversion."

Newkirk glanced at him, his lips twitching. "What kind of diversion?"

"Well, let's put it this way. Nobody's going to complain if the mess hall burns down, are they?" Kinch grinned back at him. "Louis, you go ahead, and keep watch. Okay, easy now..."

Together they got Ross off the ground, and set off, quickly but carefully. Coming within sight of the barbed-wire fence, they halted, waiting for the expected disturbance within the compound.

"There she goes," murmured Kinch, as a plume of smoke became visible, rising from the mess hall at the other end of camp. Pretty soon a shout of "_Feuer_!" went up, and the spotlights on the towers turned towards the emergency. "Go, LeBeau," hissed Kinch.

The little Frenchman scurried across the last few feet, and raised the sliding section of the wire. A few seconds, and they were inside; a minute or so longer, and they reached the safety of the barracks. Carter was right behind them, bubbling over with excitement over his foray into the realms of arson.

Colonel Hogan had been watching for them. "My quarters," he said. "We'll get him down to the tunnel later. Wilson..."

"Yes, sir." The camp medic was already following the rescue party. Sullivan, who was sitting at the table in the centre of the barracks, jumped to his feet.

"Easy, lieutenant," said Hogan. "Let the medic do his job."

Having deposited Ross on the lower bunk in the office, Newkirk retreated, leaving Kinch to help Wilson administer treatment.

Hogan beckoned him over. "Any thoughts?" he asked quietly, one eye on Sullivan, who was clearly struggling to stay awake now he and his friend had found shelter.

"Sullivan might be okay to move on in a couple of days," replied Newkirk in the same low tone, "but I don't see Eddie going anywhere for a while."

"Eddie?"

"Captain Ross. He told me to call him Eddie, and I didn't like to stand on ceremony."

Wilson's report wasn't promising. "There's some inflammation in his calf muscles. Looks like an old injury has flared up."

"He said he'd caught a bullet," said Newkirk. "Not sure how long ago, but he was grounded for about six months over it."

"Well, maybe he should have stayed grounded," observed Wilson.

There was a slight frown on Hogan's face; he folded his arms, pinching his bottom lip. "How soon will he be fit to move on?" he asked at last.

"Ask me in a week," replied the medic.

"Sullivan said something about the Gestapo getting a bit troublesome in town, Colonel," murmured Newkirk. "If that's right, we need to move these two on quick smart."

Wilson grunted irritably. "You send 'em by the normal route, Ross won't get halfway before his leg gives out."

"Then we'll have to think of something else," said Hogan.

He had to sleep on it; but by morning he had something worked out.

"How'd our guests sleep?" he asked, when LeBeau returned from taking breakfast to the guest quarters in the tunnel.

"Sullivan didn't stir all night, so he says," replied LeBeau. "Ross hasn't woken up yet."

"They were both well away every time I went in to check," added Kinch, setting to work on his own meal. Then, with a glance at Hogan, he added, "You've come up with a plan, Colonel?"

Hogan grinned. "Newkirk, start work on German uniforms for both men. Make them a colonel and a lieutenant. How soon can you have it done?"

"Already got the uniforms, Colonel," said Newkirk. "Just have to fit them. I could have them done by tea time, if we hadn't run out of tea."

"You'll have to make do with cocoa. I want these guys out of here tomorrow." Hogan put his foot up on a chair, and leaned forward. "Carter, you arrange for something to be wrong with Klink's staff car, not serious, but enough to convince him it'll have to be stripped down. Then, so he thinks it's being done, have a couple of the men get the old one out of storage and take it apart."

"You mean the one he crashed into his office?" asked Carter.

"Right. That way, when we borrow the good car to drive Ross and Sullivan to meet the sub, Klink won't notice," explained Hogan. "And we'll have the car back again before he gets suspicious."

"Colonel, it's a full day's drive to Weingarten Beach, and another day to get back," Kinch pointed out. "That's four roll calls someone's going to miss. How are we going to cover for that?"

"We won't have to," replied Hogan. "There's one acceptable excuse for missing roll call. So all I need is a volunteer to get himself sent to the cooler."

He paused expectantly; no response. "Oh, come on, guys. Don't make me order one of you to do it. Thank you, Newkirk."

"I didn't say a word," Newkirk protested.

LeBeau gave a snicker. "You blinked first, _mon pote_."

"Blimey, it's getting so a man doesn't dare breathe," muttered the volunteer. "All right, it's a fair cop. How do I set about it?"

"How about a failed escape attempt? Klink never seems to get tired of those," said Hogan. "Get the uniforms done today, go over the wire tonight, hand yourself over to the nearest patrol. That should be good for a week in solitary. Once you're in there, we'll sneak the dummy in through the tunnel to take your place, so you can take Ross and Sullivan to Weingarten and then bring the car back. Kinch, get on the radio, make sure the sub will be there to pick them up."

He straightened up, and looked around at his men. "These guys have gone through a lot just to get this far," he said. "Let's make sure it was worth it."


	6. Eddie

Eddie woke slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep. For the first time in weeks, he was within shelter; the wind and the rain couldn't reach him here under the earth. The army cot, with its thin mattress and rough blanket, seemed more comfortable than any bed he'd ever slept in. Even the aching of his injured leg was reassuring. It told him he was alive, and safe.

He lay for some time without moving, enfolded in this unfamiliar sense of security. Finally he opened his eyes.

_Well, for being underground, it sure is roomy_, he thought drowsily, as he took in the details of the space he was in; an irregularly-shaped chamber, cut into the earth and maintained by timbers set into the walls.

He turned his head slightly, blinking the sleep away, and found the entrance. "Hello," he murmured, at sight of the man standing there looking at him, dressed in RAF blue, a tape measure slung around his neck. "I know you. Peter, right?"

"That's me," replied the Englishman cheerfully. "Wasn't sure you would remember. You were half asleep when we brought you in last night. Feeling better today, I hope?"

Eddie laughed, and sat up. "I don't remember the last time I slept so well," he said. "So this is Stalag 13, right?"

"That's right. Of course, you don't see it in all its glory from down here." Peter gave him a grin. "But on the plus side, you don't get undesirables, which is to say guards, wandering in unannounced. So take it on balance, this is probably the best room in the whole establishment. How's the leg feeling?"

"Well, I know it's there, that's for sure." Eddie stretched it out, wincing. "But it's been worse. Can't say I'm looking forward to more walking, but I can stand it."

"We can do better than that," said Peter, strolling forward. "You're going out tonight, by car."

"By car? You're kidding, right? How's that possible?"

"Oh, it's easy enough. Our highly esteemed camp Kommandant will be more than happy to lend us his staff car," explained Peter. "Especially as he won't know anything about it. But we need to get you and Sullivan outfitted with German uniforms and documents, otherwise you might face some embarrassing questions on the way. See, the Krauts insist on having checkpoints on the roads. So if you can stand up for a couple of minutes, I'll just get your measurements, and in a little while a couple of my mates will be down to give you a shave and a trim, and take your photo for the ID cards. All in the day's work, you know."

Eddie braced his hands on the edge of the cot, and pushed himself to his feet. A sharp pain fired through his leg, and he staggered a little as he tried to keep the weight off it. Peter grabbed his elbow. "Steady there, chum."

"It's okay," muttered Eddie. "Just a little stiff, that's all."

"You know, you're very close to being the same size as Carter," remarked Peter, regarding him with a keen, professional eye. "That'll save some time. Just stand natural for me, that's the way...They don't run to particularly good tailoring in the _Wehrmacht_, you know, so if the fit isn't perfect - and you'll be in the car anyway, except when we stop for lunch, so..."

"We?" Eddie glanced at him. "You mean, you're coming along?"

"Well, someone has to bring the car back," replied Peter. "Anyway, you want someone along who knows the road rules, and where the best pubs are." He glanced at Eddie, a smile lurking in his eyes. "All finished," he went on. "You can sit down now, before you fall over."

Eddie dropped back onto the cot, with a quiet laugh. He'd only known this man for a few hours, but already he felt like they were old friends. "And you can just stroll out of here whenever you feel like it?"

"Oh, of course it needs some planning, but that's about the size of it." Peter looked over his shoulder, as another man came bustling in, carrying a covered plate. "And here comes breakfast. Or lunch, it's getting on a bit."

"What time is it, anyway?" asked Eddie. He'd lost his watch weeks ago; he had no idea how long he'd been asleep.

"Too late for _petit déjeuner_," replied the newcomer, his accent as well as his appearance marking him instantly as French. Vaguely, Eddie recognised him as Peter's companion from the previous night. "But I made _croque-monsieur_, to keep you going until lunchtime." He lifted the napkin from the plate as he spoke.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Never mind your fancy French names, LeBeau. That's just a ham sandwich."

LeBeau made a shrugging gesture, expressive of the contempt a Frenchman only feels when faced with the ignorance of the English, and changed the subject. "Colonel Hogan wants to talk to you."

"Blimey, it just never stops round here," muttered Peter. "I'll see you later, Eddie - when we head off, if not before." He hurried off, colliding briefly with Sullivan in the doorway. "Oops. Sorry, chum."

Sullivan held up a hand in apology. "My fault. Hey, Eddie, you look a heck of a lot better than you did last night."

He looked pretty spruce himself; clean-shaven, his hair no longer curling over his collar, wearing a clean set of fatigues. He had a bucket in one hand, and a towel draped over his shoulder. "Hot water," he said cheerfully. "First time we've seen that in a long - Say, is that a ham sandwich? Man, they got everything here."

"We do our best," observed Peter. "We won't have a five-star rating for long if we don't keep our guests happy, will we?" He grinned, winked at Eddie, and vanished.

Eddie didn't see him again for the rest of the day, but the other members of this unorthodox team were in and out constantly. LeBeau returned later to provide the barbering service Peter had mentioned, and bearing an assortment of German uniform garments for both airmen to try on. He was accompanied by a gawky, good-natured American called Carter, who arrived laden with an armful of boots in different sizes, and who talked all the time while fitting them. The afternoon brought Kinchloe, another hazily familiar face, armed with a camera to take photos for ID cards.

Colonel Hogan even found the time to call in, later in the day. "How's it going? You got everything you need?" he asked, drawing up a chair and sitting on it backwards, with his arms resting on the back. He seemed relaxed, but Eddie was pretty sure this was one officer who rarely let his guard down.

"Yes, sir, we sure have," replied Sullivan. Now he no longer had the heavy responsibility of keeping himself and his injured crewmate out of enemy hands, and with another good meal in front of him, he was in extremely high spirits. He had put his plate aside when Hogan appeared, but the colonel wasn't a stickler.

"At ease, lieutenant. You can go on eating," he said, smiling.

Sullivan hesitated, then grinned back, looking more like the kid he still was than he had for some time, and picked up his fork.

"We'll be moving you out tonight," Hogan went on. "One of my men will take you to Weingarten, where a submarine will pick you up and take you back to Dover."

"Yes, sir," murmured Eddie. "He told me he'd be coming along. I guess you don't have to provide many escaping airmen with a driver and car."

"It's not our usual procedure," Hogan admitted, "but the alternative is to keep you here till you get your strength back, and with the Gestapo sniffing round, that's not a good idea. Now, let's talk about your escape route. You'll travel by back roads to avoid as many checkpoints as possible, but if you're stopped, just keep quiet and let your driver do the talking. He speaks German, and he knows what to say." He checked his watch. "It's now eighteen hundred hours. We'll be sending you out just after midnight, so try to get some rest."

He stood up, and prepared to leave, but turned back as Eddie spoke up: "Uh, sir?"

"Yes, Captain?" said Hogan, tilting his head on one side.

"I was just wondering - you and your men are doing a whole lot of work, just to get us out safely." Eddie stammered a little. "Is there anything we can do, when we get back to England? Just by way of thanks. It seems like we ought to do something..."

"It's our job, Captain," replied the colonel. "The only thing we expect is that you'll hold up your end of the deal, and keep fighting the war till it's won. But there is one favour I'll ask of you." He sat down again. "The only reason we can operate safely is because the only people who know the set-up here are those who have to know. As far as anyone else is concerned, we're just normal prisoners of war. So when you get back to England, whether it's to your squadron, or to some other duties, whatever happens, don't tell anyone who helped you to escape. Don't say a word, not to the men in your outfit, not to your family, not to your friends. That way we get to stay alive, and keep sending guys home. Deal?"

Eddie glanced at Sullivan, then looked up at the commanding officer of this amazing outfit. "It's a deal, sir," he said. "Not one word."


	7. Weingarten Beach

"How long will it take to get to this Weingarten Beach?" asked Ross, peering out into the predawn darkness.

"If we're lucky, about fifteen hours," replied Newkirk. "Could do it quicker, but we have to avoid the bigger cities. But we should be in Belgium by lunchtime, if we don't get ourselves lost."

"And then you have to drive back again?" Ross shook his head. "Seems a lot of trouble to go to, just for two guys."

"Well, it gets me out of the place for a while." Newkirk laughed under his breath. "We don't get many excursions, you know. We took a trip to Berlin not long ago, but you don't really enjoy it when you're banged up in _Abwehr_ HQ. Besides, it's a chance to have a look round, see what the Krauts have in the way of coastal defenses, anti-aircraft batteries, that sort of thing. Then when I get back to Stalag 13, we pass it on to London by radio."

He glanced at his other passenger. Sullivan, who had taken the front seat so Eddie could keep his leg extended in the back, had fallen asleep almost as soon as the car had set off, nearly an hour ago. "Your mate's well away," remarked Newkirk

"Yeah, Tom never misses the chance for some shut-eye, and he didn't get much while we were on the run."

"It wouldn't hurt you to follow his example."

Ross shrugged. "Not sleepy. Anyway, this may be the only time I get a look at Germany from ground level. Not that there's much to see right now."

"Sun'll be up soon. And between you and me, there won't be much to see then, either," said Newkirk.

There was silence for a couple of minutes.

"It doesn't sound Belgian," observed Ross thoughtfully. "They speak Dutch, don't they? Or French. So where does it get a name like Weingarten?"

"That's the code name. See, it's not always the same beach, we have to change the location regularly, so the Germans don't cotton on. Three months earlier, and you'd have been heading up north, but that's got a bit too risky, so Belgium it is, for now. But we keep calling it Weingarten, in case anyone picks up our broadcasts," explained Newkirk. "And it's easier than trying to get your tongue around the real name. It took me long enough to get a decent German accent, I'm not about to start on another language, thanks all the same. You speak any German at all?"

"Not a word," admitted Ross. "Sullivan knows a little, so he did all the talking since we got shot down. I guess maybe I should have had some German lessons while I was grounded."

"Instead of meeting pretty girls." Newkirk laughed quietly. "I know which I'd have been doing. Still be doing it, if I had the chance."

"Limited opportunities, huh?"

"Very limited. There's the Kommandant's secretary, but Colonel Hogan's already in there. Of course, I could cut in, if I didn't have too much respect for my commanding officer." Newkirk paused, contemplating how little such considerations would matter if he thought he was in with a chance. "Otherwise, there's the occasional Underground member, some of 'em are not bad sorts at all - the girls, that is. And sometimes I'll meet a bird when I'm out and about, which is all right, as long as she doesn't turn out to be a Gestapo informant. That tends to take all the fun out of it."

"I reckon it would," murmured Ross.

For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Ross gazed out of the window, watching as the landscape gradually emerged from the darkness. "It sure doesn't look like hostile territory," he remarked after a while. "I guess they don't get so many air raids in these parts."

"Well, no. It'd be a bit of a waste, coming all this way just to wipe out a few pigs and a barn or two," replied Newkirk. "The big raids are aimed at cities - Frankfurt, Düsseldorf, places like that - and industrial areas. And bridges, too, although it usually saves trouble if we take care of those ourselves. Hammelburg gets its share, of course." He paused for a moment, then added very softly, "Not as bad as London during the Blitz. Not yet, anyway."

"You got family there?" asked Ross.

"In the East End. My sister writes and tells me they're all fine, but, well, she would say that, wouldn't she? And I'd be none the wiser, stuck here in the middle of Germany." Newkirk's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"You never thought of trying to get back there?"

"Oh, we've all thought about it," said Newkirk sombrely. "But what good would it do? Best I can hope for is that we get this bleedin' war won, before..."

He didn't finish the sentence, and the journey continued in silence for a while. The road ran in wide curves between green fields alternating with stretches of woodland, passing through a couple of pretty little villages, which Ross seemed to find quaintly attractive. But he changed his mind, when in one of these towns, they passed a couple of small boys, maybe nine or ten. One waved, the other gave the Nazi salute.

"Holy cats!" mumbled Ross, trying not to stare. "Is he for real?"

"Always makes me feel sick when I see a kiddie doing that," remarked Newkirk quietly. "You can't blame the lad, it's all he's ever known, all his life, but when I think of our kids at home..." Once again, he let the thought fall away.

"You have any of your own?" asked Ross.

"No - well, that's to say, not as far as I know," replied Newkirk. "But I come from a large family, and being the oldest, well, you worry about them, don't you?"

"Yeah, you sure do." Ross shifted in his seat, with a soft grunt of discomfort. "There's a girl I know in London - did I tell you about her?"

"You mentioned her, yes," said Newkirk, the shadow of laughter in his voice.

"She's got a whole lot of brothers and sisters. Doesn't say much, but I know she gets anxious," Ross went on.

"Not evacuated, then?"

"Didn't work out. They're a pretty enterprising bunch, from what I hear. But it doesn't matter how many of you there are, I reckon you worry just the same. My brother's in the Marines, he was fighting on Guadalcanal last year. There's only two of us, but I'll tell you, Pete, some nights I just didn't sleep. And then I'd get a letter from him, and all he wanted to know was whether I was okay."

Newkirk laughed softly. "That's what I get from Mum. Even right in the middle of the Blitz, she'd write to ask if I was wearing my winter woollies." He paused for a moment. "So, this bird of yours...Hello, what have we got, then?"

They had reached a junction, and were forced to stop by the continuous traffic flowing past, all headed in the same direction, taking up the full width of the road. The noise was loud enough to wake Sullivan. He gasped, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. "Are we there already?" he mumbled.

"Not quite yet, chum," replied Newkirk, as he watched the tanks rolling past. "Mark IVs," he murmured, after a few moments. "And heading south. So not Russia, then."

He got out of the car, and took a few steps back and forth, as if stretching his legs. For a couple of minutes he stood a few feet from the passing column, to all appearances waiting with bored resignation until he could continue on his way. One of the support vehicles stopped briefly; the passenger, an SS captain, asked a few questions, but Newkirk was well-primed for this.

"Colonel Felsner, on his way to Wiesbaden for a strategy meeting," he explained. "Top secret, I don't even know what it's about." He lowered his voice, confidentially. "But it's not hard to guess. His last posting was...well, a colder place than this."

The captain glanced at the car. "The Russian Front?"

"I never said so," Newkirk said quickly. "But when a man comes back from active service with frostbite, you know he hasn't been in North Africa."

"No...no, that's true," replied the captain, his eyes brightening. "At least that's one thing..." He broke off hurriedly. "Very good, private. I hope I can trust your discretion regarding our movements."

_Better __than __you __can __trust __your __own, __mate,_ thought Newkirk; but not even a flicker crossed his face, as he snapped into a salute. "_Jawohl, __Herr __Hauptsturmführer. __Heil __Hitler._"

He returned to the car. "Tunisia, odds on," he remarked. "Handy to know, though from the news reports, it's a bit late for that."

"Things been going on, while we've been on holidays?" asked Ross. His voice sounded a little strained, and Newkirk glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.

"A lot can happen in seven weeks," he said. Then, after a pause, he added, "Nearly time for elevenses. We'll let this lot get past, then once we're a bit further on, we can stop for a bit. Wilson said you should stretch that leg out every so often."

A break in the column gave him the opportunity to cross over, and soon the noise and dust thrown out by the monsters of war fell into distance, as the road twisted round to enter the soft quiet of a stretch of woods. Newkirk kept his eyes open for a suitable place to pull over, and before long found an open grassy clearing, bright in the late morning sunlight.

"This'll do us," he said.

They had brought food, and flasks of coffee, to avoid having to find meals along the way. Sullivan, with the natural healthy appetite of a young man who had gone short for too many weeks, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and rapidly disposed of them, then excused himself with a grin, and went to commune with nature.

Ross had eased himself out of the car with caution, and stood leaning against the door for support.

"You won't be making any more bombing runs," observed Newkirk, bringing him a mug of coffee.

"No, I guess not," Ross sighed. "Maybe I can get a training post, or something like that. There's plenty of non-combat flying work around."

"You think they'll send you home?"

"Not if I can help it." His voice deepened with resolve.

Newkirk regarded him curiously. "You're really serious about that lass, aren't you?"

There was a pause, as Ross considered the question. "Yeah. I'd take her home with me like a shot, if she'd go. But I can't ask her to leave her mom, not while the war's still going on. Anyway, how would it look? Some folks get real mad about us Yanks getting together with English girls. I reckon her brothers would be gunning for me if I even suggested it." He fell silent again. "God knows what she's thinking right now," he added softly. "Two months, and not a word from me."

"Well, not long now, and you can set her mind at rest," Newkirk pointed out in what he hoped was a bracing tone. Then, as Sullivan returned, he let the subject drop.

The brief stop seemed to do them all good. This time it was Ross who drifted into sleep as the journey continued. Sullivan took charge of the map, directing Newkirk around the outskirts of Koblenz, and south of Aachen to cross the border into Belgium. Every so often they would have to stop at a checkpoint, and at each one, Newkirk's story changed slightly. To begin with, "Colonel Felsner" was on his way to Köln, for specialist medical treatment; then to Maastricht, for a top-level briefing; and finally to Antwerp on a _Wehrmacht _recruiting drive. Not for a moment did the colonel's driver let on how tight his stomach muscles were, each time he handed over the documents Kinch had made up. But they passed without question.

There was little difference in the appearance of the countryside as they got further into Belgium, but Newkirk was very much on the alert. "Thing is, it's not just the Germans we have to worry about from here on," he explained, when Ross, who'd woken up, queried the change. "They'll only shoot us if they think we're not German. The partisans, on the other hand, will shoot us if they think we are. And they won't give us time to explain ourselves first."

He made another rest stop on the outskirts of Liège, but kept it short. Soon they were on their way again; and when first Ross, then Sullivan dozed off, Newkirk let them sleep. Both of them had arrears to make up in that department.

A gradual flattening out of the landscape indicated they were nearing the coast. Newkirk took his time, consulting the map as he went. He couldn't risk getting lost now; somehow, it mattered more to him than usual that these two - well, Eddie, if he was honest about it - should get safely back to England. He skirted round Brussels, and headed for the sea.

The sun was low over the horizon, as they finally came within sight of the water. A small village lay before them, whitewashed stone walls gleaming gold in the western light. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes," said Newkirk under his breath.

Sullivan heard him, and opened his own eyes. "Gosh. Ain't that just the prettiest thing you ever saw?"

"It sure is," murmured Ross, gazing as if he could see something beyond the view.

Newkirk drew the car to a halt in front of a little café facing the waterfront, its windows reflecting the sunset. "This is the place," he said. "You better wait here, I'll go in and find our contact."

He strolled in, every inch a German soldier, apparently oblivious to the hostile glances of the few patrons already established at the scattered tables. The proprietor, a heavy-set man with a receding hairline, gave him a guarded look, and uttered a few words in his own language. Newkirk had no idea whether it was a greeting, or a promise to cut his throat at the earliest opportunity.

"_Ein __Bier, __bitte_," he said brusquely. The man continued to gaze at him for a few seconds, then moved slowly to the taps.

Newkirk paid for the beer, and leaned forward. "Are you the man who breeds goldfinches?" he murmured softly, still speaking German

The man's expression didn't change. "No. But my wife's brother keeps canaries."

"Emile?"

"Yes. Are you from..."

"Papa Bear, that's right. And I've got two cubs, wanting to go home."

Emile smiled, and the tension in the café eased immediately. "We have been expecting them." Divining by some instinct Newkirk's nationality, he had switched to English. "The British submarine will pick them up tonight, as requested. They are...?"

"Waiting outside. I'll fetch them in." Newkirk went to the door, but stopped dead. In the bare couple of minutes he'd been inside, Sullivan and Ross had picked up some unwanted company. The man's uniform, though not identical to that of his French counterparts, clearly indicated his status; a member of the _Gendarmerie_. And he was apparently bent on giving Sullivan a hard time.

"Oh, blimey, it's the rozzers," murmured Newkirk, at a loss.

Emile had followed him, and at sight of the policeman, he gave a sigh. "Claes, Gerard, go and explain. Georges is no collaborator," he explained to Newkirk, as two of his customers slipped out to deal with the problem. "He has helped us out many times, but his dislike of the Germans is too well known for him to be a part of our group."

Claes and Gerard were now expostulating with the officer in their own language. It took a couple of minutes, but finally he grasped what they were saying. He straightened up, saluted, then, unable to contain himself, grasped Sullivan's hand in both his own, shaking it vigorously. Ross received the same treatment. A few more words were exchanged, before the two Americans were escorted into the café, leaving the _gendarme_ to watch the car.

"Boy, that was scary," Sullivan burst out, as soon as they were inside. "I tried to get rid of him, but he didn't seem to understand my German, and he kept yabbering in...I mean, he only spoke the local lingo," he finished up hurriedly, with one eye on Emile and his fellow Belgians.

Gerard - or Claes, Newkirk wasn't sure which was which - made some remark or other, and a laugh went round, to Sullivan's further embarrassment.

"You must be hungry, after your long journey," said Emile. "There is time for a meal, before the submarine comes." He bustled off towards the back of the café. The meal proved to be beef stewed in beer, and went down very well with two of his guests. Ross was too weary to eat.

"Not long now, Eddie," said Newkirk, watching him closely; and Ross gave him a tired smile. What he needed was another good night's sleep; but that would have to wait. In the meantime, the red wine Emile had brought along with the stew seemed to hearten him up a little. By the time the others had finished eating, he looked ready for the final part of the journey.

Near midnight found them at the rendezvous point, some distance along the shore from the village. A small boat, wide and sturdy-looking, was drawn up above the water line, and its owner stood by, ready to ferry the two Americans out to the submarine as soon as the signal appeared.

"Hey, Peter," said Ross. "You could come along, you know."

For a moment, Newkirk was tempted. He rarely let himself think about it, but sometimes he was desperate to get home; to see Mavis, just for a few minutes; to check on the kids and make sure they were turning out right; to give his mum a hug and tell her everything was fine.

"Well, I'd love to, Eddie," he heard himself say, "but think how disappointed the Kommandant would be, if he didn't see my smiling face at roll call every morning." Then with a rueful grin, he added, "Anyway, there's still too much work to do."

"Somehow I thought you'd say that." Ross returned the grin. "You're all right, Pete."

Emile's voice prevented Newkirk from replying. "The signal has been given. It's time."

Ross straightened up, with a little stagger as he put weight on the injured leg. Newkirk took his arm to steady him, and together they crossed the sand.

"Thanks," said Ross in a low voice, once he'd been settled in the little boat. "Thanks for everything."

"All part of the service," replied Newkirk, keeping it light. "You just go and make that girl happy. And don't worry about what her family will say, because if they've got any sense - well, if any of my sisters brought you home, I'd give her my blessing, and dance at your wedding."

"I'll hold you to that." Ross gave a low chuckle. "When the big day comes - if it ever does - you better be there."

He gripped Newkirk's shoulder for a moment, before the boat was pushed out into the sea. Even then, he kept watching, till he could no longer see the beach at all.

Suddenly he laughed.

"What's that for?" asked Sullivan.

Ross grinned in the darkness. "I just invited him to my wedding," he said. "And it only just occurred to me, I still don't know his last name..."


	8. Coming Home

"Somerset's not that far away, Mam."

Gwen spoke cheerfully, but she didn't look at her mother; all her attention was focused on picking a minuscule piece of lint from the front of her skirt. The neat hyacinth-coloured suit she was wearing had been Kathleen's. It wasn't a colour Gwennie liked, but she didn't want to waste coupons on new clothes, just to go to Somerset.

She looked quite smart in it, only more grown-up than her mother liked to see her.

"It could have been worse," she went on. "The way that miserable old cow at the labour exchange went on, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd sent me off to Glasgow to work in the shipyards. At least a parachute factory is easier than that."

"Heaven help any sailor on a boat you put together," said Alice, as she gazed at herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, admiring the effect of Gwen's little felt hat on her own head.

"I could learn, if I had to," Gwen replied. "And if you don't mind, I'll have that." She tweaked the hat away, and inspected it closely as if expecting to find something crawling around inside.

"I was just seeing how it looked," Alice protested.

"Oh, I'm sure you were. Is there anything else of mine you fancy, miss?" Gwen gave a forced laugh, to take the edge off it. "I wonder if you'd jump into my grave as fast."

"That'll do." Mam's voice stopped Alice's retort cold. "Alice, go and brush your hair. You look like you slept in a haystack."

Alice pouted, but did as she was told; although her dignified exit was rather spoiled by Lilly's tempestuous entrance, still in her pyjamas. "Mam, can't I go and see Gwennie off at the station?"

"Oh, for pity's sake, no!" Gwen broke out, as for a second, her dogged cheerfulness wavered.

Mrs Newkirk glanced sharply at her. "Better not, Lilly. If you go, Maggie and Noel will want to go as well. I can't have all of you running round Paddington Station, I know exactly how that would turn out. You'll go to school as usual."

"It's not fair," wailed Lilly, storming out again. "Maggie, Mam says we have to go to school."

"Well, that's me told, isn't it?" said Gwen, with another laugh, a little shaky this time. "Good thing I didn't expect them to miss me."

Her mother smiled tightly. "They'll miss you, love." She hesitated, as if about to say more, but the sound of the front door opening sent whatever it was into the limbo of things unsaid. A moment later, Mavis came flying in, out of breath.

"I thought I'd missed you," she gasped. "The blinkin' bus broke down on Piccadilly, we were ages late getting back to the depot."

Gwen broke into a smile. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"As if I'd let you push off to Somerset without saying goodbye." Mavis delved in her handbag. "I thought you might like to take this with you, seeing as how yours doesn't keep time."

"Oh, Mave...I can't take your watch," stammered Gwen. "Peter bought it for you."

"All the more reason for you not to lose it once you get there," replied Mavis brusquely. "Mam, do you want to go and see her off? I can get the kids off to school for once."

Gwen's eyes lit up briefly; but Mam shook her head. "I have to be at the works canteen by ten, and it's three changes of bus from Paddington. I'd never make it, love."

"You'd think they'd let you be late for once." Mavis bit her lip.

Mam hesitated, the longing in her face reflected in Gwen's. But both of them pushed the temptation away. "No, better not," said Gwen. "I don't want to cry on the platform. And it's not like I'm going to the ends of the earth, Mavis. It's only Somerset."

The thud of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs prevented Mavis from arguing the point; and a few moments later Arthur appeared, with Gwen's suitcase.

"If you think I'm lugging that all the way to Paddington, you've got another think coming," he said irritably. "What have you got in there, Southwark bleedin' Bridge?"

"Well, that's nice," Gwen protested. "It's only the necessities, you know. I can't be running back home every time I need something, can I? And it's a small town, so who knows what the shops'll be like?"

"Don't pay any attention to him," Mavis added. "When it's his turn to go off somewhere, he'll find out."

Arthur snorted. "I wouldn't even need a suitcase. All I'd need would be a spare pair of socks, and something to read on the train..."

"Oh, yes? And what about clean underwear?"

Just as he was about to scandalise his sisters by denying any such requirement, an even louder din from the stairs announced the descent of the youngest members of the household. Mavis put her hand over her good ear, wincing.

"Oh, for pity's sake, now what?" sighed Gwennie, as Margaret thundered out of the front door, with Noel and Lilly hot on her heels.

Arthur went to the window and peered out. "I thought we were taking the bus, Gwen," he remarked.

"We are," Gwen replied, with a suspicious glance at Mavis.

"Well, there's a cab coming up the street." Arthur sniggered. "Someone's got lost."

Gwen came to look, just as the cab came to a stop, right in front of Number Twenty-Seven. The children, having raced out to see what was going on, were now clustered on the pavement, affecting indifference to the man in USAAF uniform who had exited the cab, and was scanning the house numbers with keen, anxious interest.

"You all right there, Gwen?" asked Mavis. She hadn't heard the sudden intake of her sister's breath, but was immediately aware of Gwennie's tension.

Gwen didn't answer. All she was aware of was his presence, right here on Esk Road; the gaunt look about him, and the halt in his gait as he approached the three young hooligans hanging on the railings. Abruptly she turned, brushed past Arthur and Mavis, and ran to the door. Before she knew herself what she was doing, she was in his arms, crying as if she didn't know how to stop.

"Hey, now, Gwen," he murmured soothingly. "I thought you'd be happy to see me. What's all this?" He glanced at the children. Lilly and Noel were watching Gwen's unprecedented behaviour with consternation; Margaret, with deep scorn. "These are the kids you're always bragging about, right? And the gorgeous lady with eyes like yours, who's about to box my ears for making her daughter cry...?"

Gwen choked, and made an effort to control herself. "Eddie...Eddie, where...what...where...?" she sobbed, hiccoughing between each word.

The next moment, Mam was there. "Gwen, love, what's the matter? Who's your friend?" She sized Eddie up, as if determining whether a clip across the ears was in fact merited.

Eddie gave her a sample of the smile Gwennie knew so well. "I know we haven't met yet, ma'am, and I'm real sorry about that. Thing is, I've been kind of busy. But I sure hope I'm going to be forgiven, once I explain what happened. Any chance I can come indoors and tell you all about it?"

Gwen gave another hiccough. "Eddie, why'd you have to turn up now?" she stammered. "I've got to...I'll miss my...Eddie, they're sending me to Somerset to make parachutes."

"You mean now? Today? Well, if that doesn't beat all." Eddie tipped back his cap. "Guess we'd better talk on the way. I've got something to say to you, something I should have said a long time ago."

She stared at him, blinking the tears from her eyelashes. "Eddie, you can't come to Somerset with me...can you?"

"I don't see why not. I'm on leave, you know. And when I get back, maybe I can call round and meet the rest of the family." He glanced round, trying not to laugh at the increasing excitement of the children; smiled to reassure Mrs Newkirk's evident anxiety; met Mavis's gaze, cool and critical but not disapproving; finally looked at Artie, still standing in the doorway, watching with a tilt to his head and a gleam of amusement in his eyes, while Alice, who had just realised she was missing something, and had come flying downstairs with the hairbrush still in her hand, peered over his shoulder.

A tiny crease formed between Eddie's eyebrows as he studied Arthur's dark hair and strongly-defined features. But whatever chord of memory had been struck, he dismissed it for now, and turned his attention back to Gwen. His girl; he had no doubts now. Without regard to onlookers - and by now half the residents of Esk Road were watching from windows or doorsteps - he took her face between his hands.

"Listen, Gwen," he said, softly but with determination. "It took me seven weeks to get back to England. I'm not letting you out of my sight now. Who's coming to see us off?"

"Mam," put in Mavis quickly. "Yes, go on, Mam. Gwen wants you. You can catch a cab to the works afterwards. I'll pay the fare."

"No, you won't." Eddie looked up. "If Gwen wants her mom to come to the station, then I want her, too. And even if you don't, Gwen, I still want your mom to come along. So any cab fares involved, I get to pay them."

"Oh, is that right?" Gwen's eyes kindled.

"That's right, beautiful," replied Eddie. "After all, I'm going to be part of the family, right?"

A squeal of excitement from the little girls, and a gasp from Mavis, greeted that. But neither Eddie nor Gwen heard them. For several seconds, they were the only two people in the world.

"Mam," said Gwen at last, "go and fetch your coat and hat."

* * *

It was mail day at Stalag 13. Sergeant Schultz, the rotund guard in charge of Barracks 2, made his round, delivering letters to those men lucky enough to receive news from home. He'd been doing this long enough to recognise the handwriting on most of the envelopes; but one of them was in an unfamiliar hand.

"Newkirk, do you have another lady friend you haven't told me about?" he asked, squinting at the neatly printed address. "How could you? I thought we were friends."

Newkirk took the letter, frowning slightly. "It's from Gwennie," he said. "My little sister."

"I thought your sister was called Mavis," observed Carter, as he ripped open his own correspondence, with scant regard for the fact that it wasn't sealed.

"A man can have more than one sister, you know." Newkirk was already unfolding the thin pages. "I hope nothing's wrong at home," he added, almost to himself. "Gwen hardly ever writes, usually she leaves it to..." His voice died away as he started reading.

_Dear Peter,_

_I wish I could see your face when you read this. It's probably going to come as a bit of a shock to you, because I never said anything about it before, but I know you'll be happy for me when I tell you I'm engaged._

_It all happened so fast, I'm still in a bit of a daze about it. Would you believe it, I hadn't heard from him in weeks, and I didn't know what to think. But it turned out his plane was shot down, and it took him that long to get home. Anyway, he turned up just as I was heading out the door to catch the train to Somerset._

_Oh, Pete, I'm so happy, you wouldn't credit it. Mam thinks the world of him, too, and the kiddies love him. Even Mavis approves._

_Of course we can't get married yet. I told him I couldn't have you miss my wedding. When he found out I had a brother who was a POW, he asked me all about you, and where you are, and what you look like, and everything. It's funny, Peter, he says he feels like he knows you already, and he wants to wait till you come home, too. I can't wait for you to meet each other, I know you and him will get on like a house on fire. So you take care of yourself, and don't make us wait too long._

_All my love,_

_Gwen_

_PS I just read through this letter, and realised I haven't told you who he is. But it seems funny to me that you don't already know all about him. He's American, from Iowa, and he's a captain in the US air force. Don't get sniffy about that, will you? His name is Edward Ross, but everyone calls him Eddie._

"Well, I'll be flamin' well..." murmured Newkirk.

His barracks mates looked up, caught by the tone of his voice. "Is something wrong?" asked Kinch.

It didn't look like it, from the grin which slowly spread across Newkirk's face as he replied: "My little sister's gone and got herself engaged."

Colonel Hogan, glancing up from his own home letter, caught the gleam in his eye. "Who's the lucky man, Newkirk? Friend of yours?"

"Yes, I suppose he is." Newkirk considered, then gave a soft chuckle.

"What's so funny?" asked Hogan, breaking into a smile.

"Well, it just struck me." Newkirk laid his sister's letter on the table, smoothing the pages out. "I didn't even know Gwennie had a young man. But I got my wedding invitation weeks ago."


	9. Passengers

"All fares, please."

Mavis, coming down the stairs, made a rapid survey of the crowded bus, and with the accuracy of experience identified the new passengers who had boarded at the last two stops, while she was on the upper deck. She smiled at sight of the gentleman in the dark suit, who always got on near Goodge Street, and whose face invariably lit up as soon as he saw her. Somehow he always managed to be on her bus; she half-suspected he would let a few go past, waiting until he saw her before he boarded.

_He's wearing a different tie_, she thought.

"Green Park?" she asked.

"Yes. Thank you." He never said more than a few words, as if embarrassed about the accent which identified him as a refugee. But his tentative smile spoke volumes, and his eyes followed her as she moved on to the next passenger.

"Afternoon, Mrs Whitwell," she said, turning a little to bring her good ear into range. "That moggie of yours run off home again?"

Mrs Whitwell, a plaintive, colourless middle-aged woman, sighed. "It's wearing me out, Mavis. That's five times now we've brung her to my sister's house, and five times she's taken off as soon as she's let outside. Now you tell me how a cat finds its way from Putney to Mile End without getting run over, because I have no idea."

"You didn't bring her back with you this time?"

"Not today. She wouldn't come when I called, she just sat on what's left of the doorstep, with that high-and-mighty look of hers, and as soon as I got close she scarpered. I don't feel up to chasing her round, not with my knees, let alone all the rubble still laying round. So I left a bit of horsemeat to keep her going, and I'll go back in a couple of days with my sister's lad. Mind you, there's times I wouldn't mind running off back there meself. I miss the old place. Still," she finished, in mournful tones, "at least I've got a roof over my head. Thanks, love." She tucked her ticket into her purse, and went on with her knitting.

Further along, the two girls from the GPO exchange broke off their conversation. "Mavis, is it true your Gwennie's getting married?" asked one of them, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"You don't miss much, do you, Peg? She's engaged," replied Mavis. "But they're not sending wedding invitations yet."

"I heard her young man's a Polish airman," said the other girl. "How's she get along, what with the language and all?"

"Ooh, I couldn't half fancy one of those Polish boys," sighed Peggy. "Gwen has all the luck."

Mavis laughed. "He's not Polish, I'll tell you that much. And that's all you're getting out of me. You know what they say about careless talk."

Kitty gave a soft snigger, and nudged her friend. "Sounds like someone's jealous," she remarked airily. But Mavis didn't take the bait.

There was one more passenger who hadn't yet paid; a young woman, sitting towards the front of the bus, with fair hair under a tiny, elaborately trimmed hat. Mavis didn't recognise her at first, but as she came closer, the girl turned her head. For a moment, their eyes locked.

"Miss Newkirk."

"Miss Nottington."

"Knightsbridge, please." The passenger fumbled in her purse; apparently she hadn't thought to have her tuppence ready. _But that's Miss Rita Nottington for you_, thought Mavis. _What Peter ever saw in her...!_

She didn't follow the thought through; she knew exactly what the attraction was. Peter might be her brother, but she was well aware of how susceptible he was to any pretty girl. And Rita, even if she hadn't been dressed up to the nines, was a very pretty girl indeed. Nylon stockings, a little crimson frock, and the hat; it seemed a bit overdone for an afternoon's shopping, even in Knightsbridge. But that, again, was Rita all over. She was the kind who'd dress up for an air raid. Still, Mavis's mouth pursed up, as she watched the girl's restless fidgeting.

She retreated to the platform, from where she could keep an eye on things; chiefly, on Rita. The bus pulled up, then moved on again, without picking up any new passengers.

"It is a very fine day." The voice of the foreign gentleman broke in on Mavis's thoughts.

She glanced at him, slightly startled. "Yes, it is," she said, after a few seconds. Then, aware she'd been a bit abrupt, she went on. "Nice weather for a stroll in the park, if I didn't have to work."

"Ah, yes. We all have to work," he replied, with a little laugh. "But is there not a - what do you call it, a bank holiday soon?"

"Whit Monday." With an effort, Mavis sent her vague suspicions packing, and turned her attention to the new conversation. "On the 14th. But I'm rostered on. No rest for the wicked, that's what they say."

"Oh, but..." He broke off, and cleared his throat in apparent embarrassment. "I must also work. So I must be wicked, is that not so?"

"I'm sure you're not," said Mavis, without thinking. She felt herself blushing, and added hastily, "So, you work near Goodge Street, then?"

"Near there, yes." He seemed a little reticent about it; perhaps he wasn't at liberty to talk about what he did. After a moment, he turned the subject. "Your job must be very interesting."

"I suppose it is," replied Mavis. "It's full of surprises, anyway. You never know who's going to hop on and off." She glanced at Rita again. "Still, you get to know the regulars, by sight, at least."

He hesitated, apparently unsure whether, after seeing her on the bus every day for four months, he counted as a regular. But before he could decide, the bus slowed again, coming to a halt opposite the Lyric Theatre, where an influx of passengers put any further conversation on hold. The stop at Picadilly was just as crowded, and Old Bond Street worse; by the time Mavis had finished collecting fares, they had reached Green Park. The gentleman stood up, clutching his briefcase, and stepped onto the platform. On the point of alighting, he turned back.

"My name is Lutz. Karl Lutz," he said quickly; then descended and hurried away. Mavis gazed after him, but the bus was already moving again.

His name sounded German. It didn't mean anything, of course; most likely he was one of the many who had fled when the Nazis took over, or afterwards. But Mavis still felt a slight sense of disappointment. She had somehow got it in her head that he was from one of the occupied countries; she didn't want him to be German, although she couldn't think why it mattered when he was no more than a casual acquaintance. And unlikely to be anything more, if his home was around here, where he left the bus every day. Even with a war on, Stepney didn't socialise with Mayfair.

The passengers boarding at Hyde Park Corner found their conductor a little less attentive than usual, and she scarcely noticed when Rita Nottington left at the next stop. But the traffic was slow just here, and as the bus crawled down Brompton Road, she found herself following the progress of the frivolous little hat, which bobbed along in front of Harrods until it met the royal blue peaked cap of a naval officer. A momentary pause ensued, before the cap dipped slightly. Rita turned her head, allowing the kiss to land on her cheek instead of her lips. Her eyes met Mavis's for a second, and she turned scarlet.

Then a break opened in the traffic; the bus moved on, and Rita was lost to sight.

Mavis had completely forgotten about Karl Lutz. All she could think of was her brother. She would have given anything not to have seen Rita today. But she had seen, and now she had to decide which was the kinder course: to let Peter go on thinking his girl was indeed his; or to break it to him that, with him safely out of the way in a German prison camp, Rita was stepping out with another man.

* * *

_Notes: _

_Whit Monday in 1943 fell on 14th June. _

_And yes, that's Major Lutz, from "Klink vs the Gonculator" (Season 4)_


	10. Further Correspondence

Dear Pete,

I'm back in London, staying with Gran while I get sorted. Got some work, running errands for Sid Potter. He's got a pretty good business going.

Do you know Betty Fowler? I think she knows you.

Harry.

* * *

Dear Harry,

I should think Gran's happy to have you there. If any of Sid's business rivals turn up on her doorstep, she knows how to handle them. I hope he's paying you cash up front. Not that he can't be trusted, of course, but better to be safe than done over, right?

I don't remember Betty, but I knew her sister Violet, and I'm sure the little misunderstanding I had with her father wasn't her fault.

Pete.


	11. Lilly

_My name is Lilly Grace Newkirk and this is my homework composition about my family. The people in my family are Mam my five sisters and four brothers and me plus sometimes Dad as well. Theres Granny too who lives in Catford and has a parrot and four aunts. I have other aunts and uncles but they live in Wales so they dont count. All my brothers and sisters are older than me only Noel isnt. Some of them are grown up and dont live at home any more. There names are Peter Mavis Kathleen and Gwen. The ones I live with are Margaret whos the next oldest than me Alice Arthur and Noel. Alice and Arthur are twins I forgot to put Harry in sometimes he is at home and sometimes not. _

_My oldest brother is Peter. He is in the RAF. Before the war he did a magic show at the Palladium and before that he was with a circus before that he was a tailor and before that I dont know what he did. He never lived at home since I was here but he used to come and visit and bring sweets and things but now he is a prisoner of war in Germany and he cant come and visit any more. Mavis comes nearly every day but she doesnt bring anything. Mavis works on the buses as a lady conducter. Mavis is nice but I like Peter best._

Lilly paused, reading over the last paragraph. She had a vague idea that there ought to be an apostrophe in there somewhere, but she had never quite got the hang of punctuation, and writing compositions was painful enough without all that bother. Still, she was pretty sure something was wrong. Finally after some thought, she amended one word. But _sweet's _didn't look right either.

_My sister Kathleen is a land girl and Gwen works in a factory making parashutes. They dont live in London now. Alice is the oldest at home since Gwen left she is supposed to look after us till Mam gets home from work but she doesnt she only bosses us around. _

As if responding to the mention of her name, Alice's voice broke in at this point: "Lilly!"

"I'm busy!" Lilly shouted back.

A pause, then: "Lilly! Can you go to the baker's for me? We're almost out of bread."

"Can't Maggie go?"

"Maggie's not here." That was nothing unusual. Ever since Alice had taken charge at home, Maggie was generally elsewhere. "Come on, Lilly, Mam'll be home in an hour, she'll be wanting her tea."

"Wouldn't hurt you to go yourself," muttered Lilly under her breath, flinging down her pencil. She knew she would have to give in, but she had no intention of doing so graciously.

She flounced down the stairs to find her sister in the kitchen, enveloped in a cotton pinafore and perusing the latest leaflet from the Ministry of Food; while Arthur sat opposite, building a model tank out of bits of cardboard and old matchsticks, and taking up most of the available table space.

"Take the ration book with you," said Alice. "I need a tin of Spam, if Mr Giltrap's got any in."

"Not Spam fritters again," grumbled Arthur.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Don't be so picky. There's a war on, you know. We're lucky to have it. Anyway, it's not fritters. I'm making Spam shepherd's pie for tomorrow night." She glared at Arthur, who had groaned. "Unless you'd sooner have whale meat."

"Why not?" he shot back. "At least with whale meat, nothing you do to it can make it any worse."

Lilly snickered, but quickly got the smile off her face at the look she received from her sister. "Can I get some tinned fruit if there is any?" she asked.

"You don't even like tinned fruit." Alice's eyes narrowed.

"No, but it's a good standby," replied Lilly innocently.

"Don't start with me, miss. Get off with you, and come straight back, no dawdling on the way. And whatever you do, don't you lose that ration book."

Lilly pulled a face at her, crammed the ration book and purse into her pocket, and ran for it, pausing only to get the old shopping basket from the cupboard under the stairs. She flew out the front door and raced to the end of Esk Road, but slowed to a leisurely amble once she was round the corner.

"_Don't start with me, miss_." As she passed beneath the railway line, she mimicked Alice's high-pitched voice and slight lisp with cruel accuracy; and the high brickwork arch caught the sound and bounced it back. "It'd just serve her right if I didn't come back at all."

She spent a few minutes picturing Alice's lifelong remorse at having sent her little sister out to meet an unspecified, but definitely tragic, fate on the mean streets of Stepney. The whole story, as it played out in her mind's eye, was heartrending enough to keep her enthralled, even while she waited in the queue at the baker's shop.

But as she crossed the street to get to the grocer's, a voice broke in on her flight of imagination: "Aren't you one of the little Newkirk girls?"

Lilly surfaced from her dream, and turned her head. The speaker was a young woman, blonde, slightly flashy, and very pretty. "Maybe you don't remember me," she added. "I'm a friend of your brother."

"Oh. Hello, Miss Tottington," said Lilly.

"Nottington. Rita Nottington." The lady's smile didn't falter, but a slight hardening of her eyes proved the barb had got through. "Let me see, you're Margaret, is that right?"

Lilly just smiled, and didn't answer. She had picked up her sisters' dislike for Rita, without quite understanding its foundation, and she saw no reason to be nice. Besides, it was standard procedure with both her and Maggie not to correct anyone making that error; it came in handy whenever one of them needed an alibi.

The pause lasted just long enough to grow awkward before Rita spoke again. "Have you heard from Peter recently?"

"Haven't you?" asked Lilly, all innocence.

Rita flushed. "Not for a little while. As a matter of fact, I was just going to call on your mother, and ask her whether...well, your Mavis writes to him, I was just wondering if she'd been saying things about me, that's all. Not that there's anything to tell, of course," she added hastily. "It's just sometimes things don't look...I mean, people make assumptions...never mind, you wouldn't understand."

If there was one remark which always got under Lilly's skin, that was the one; she'd been hearing it for years from Gwennie, and Alice, and even Maggie. To cop it from Miss Rita Nottington was too much. "Mam isn't home," she said. "She won't be home for hours yet. I have to go now. Goodbye."

She turned away abruptly, and ran off, completely forgetting the tin of Spam she was supposed to have bought; and she had got as far as the railway viaduct before recollection of that part of the errand brought her to an abrupt halt. For a few moments she hesitated, her mouth twisting at the thought of what Alice planned to do with it. Then she considered the alternative, and that decided it; anything was better than whale meat. She sighed, and started back. But she didn't get far. Her footsteps slowed, and stopped, and her eyes turned skyward.

There was nothing to see, yet; but the air seemed to tremble under the weight of the siren's piercing wail.

It was something Lilly should have been used to. She knew the routine; as soon as the warning sounded, the whole family would drop everything, come to the kitchen, and from there they'd go all together to the tube station. Or if she was at school, the teachers would walk them to the nearest shelter, and once they were there, Maggie would find her and Noel, and they'd stay close until the all-clear sounded. But this time was different. She was on her own.

She had to go home. She had to go, right now. And she was already running before she finished the thought.

Her sandals caught against the pavement, and she stumbled. Someone caught her before she fell, but the jolt left her dizzy and shaken.

"Steady, there. Don't go and get all panicky."

Lilly knew that voice. She gasped, and looked up. Sure enough, it was Rita.

"You all right?" she added. "Then tell me where's the nearest shelter."

"I want to go home," Lilly whimpered.

"There isn't time." Rita tightened her grip. "Can't you hear them? They'll be here in half a minute. You stay with me."

"But Mam'll go spare..."

"She knows you'll head for shelter," interrupted Rita sharply. "That's what she wants you to do. Come on, quickly. Which way?"

Lilly wavered; but the low drone of the approaching planes made the choice for her. "This way," she panted, and took Rita's hand. The warning was late; they were too far from the official shelter. They'd have to take cover under the archway where Taunton Street passed under the train line, and hope for the best.

As they approached the underpass, a man called out to them from the narrow laneway to one side, where the arches supporting the viaduct had been converted to workshops and storage lock-ups. Lilly swerved, almost dragging Rita off her high heels, and followed him towards the open door of the third arch along. He followed them in, and pulled the door closed; and Lilly dropped to the floor, breathless, clutching the basket to her chest until it hurt.

Even with the door closed, there was enough light coming in through the gap at the top for her to make out the clutter of old household items stored here. Other refugees were making themselves comfortable: two boys in their mid-teens, one of them with a bicycle; an elderly man with a birdcage containing a slightly hysterical green budgerigar; a middle-aged housewife wearing a faded pinafore. The man who'd let them in, a thin, wiry-looking chap in shirt sleeves and braces, glared upwards. "Typical. Man works an eighteen hour shift, comes home, just about to get some kip, and bleedin' Jerries have to go and spoil it."

"Yes, dear." The woman, obviously his wife, had already settled in at the back of the lock-up. She had brought a cushion, which she put on top of an old steamer trunk, before sitting down and producing a half-knitted sock from her handbag. She nodded towards Rita. "There's room here, miss, if you don't mind sharing."

The look on Rita's face suggested she would rather sit down to supper with Mussolini; but a heavy, resonating crash from outside diverted everyone's attention. It sounded close; bombs always did sound really close, when they went off. Lilly shivered, and closed her eyes. If one landed in Esk Road, and Mam and the rest were still there...

"It's all right, kiddie. They'll be okay, you'll see."

She turned instinctively towards the speaker, who had sat down beside her. And Rita put both arms around her, and gave her an awkward hug. "You keep your chin up. What would Peter say, if he saw you getting into a state?" she added, in what was meant to be a bracing tone.

Lilly held back for a couple of seconds; but the roar of another explosion, louder than the first, shattered her hostility, and she pushed the basket aside and snuggled closer. She wanted Mam, or Mavis, but they weren't here. Lilly didn't like Rita, but as long as there were bombs falling outside, it didn't matter. Rita was Pete's friend. That was all that mattered.

* * *

_Note: Bread was not rationed in England during the war, although the coarse, heavy wholemeal "National Loaf" was the only bread available. Spam could be purchased under the points system, as could tinned fruit when it was available. Whale was not rationed, but according to most sources it seems to have been extremely unpopular._


	12. Underneath the Arches

"This brings back memories."

The old man took his jacket off and draped it over the birdcage, which he set on the floor at his feet, before sitting on the half-cushion Rita had passed up. The man with the braces had balanced himself rather unsteadily on a rickety wooden chair; his wife kept knitting.

"How d'you mean?" she asked; but the old chap just gave her a toothless grin.

"Did you remember to lock the back door, Bet?" said the man with the braces.

She sighed faintly. "Yes, love."

"You're very quiet, Margaret," said Rita. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," mumbled Lilly, blushing. Maybe she should own up to not being Maggie; it was a bit embarrassing, seeing as Rita was being so nice. But she didn't want to confess just now. It might make her start crying, and she never cried during air raids.

The two boys had retreated to the back of the lock-up and squatted on the dusty floor. One of them gazed at the gap above the door "What d'you reckon, Bill - Dorniers, or Heinkels?" he said.

"Dorniers," replied Bill, with the authority of a self-taught expert on the subject of aircraft noises.

"I dunno, they sound more like Heinkels."

"Leave it out, Alf. You wouldn't know a Heinkel if it snuck up behind you and bit you on the arse."

"Language," said Bet, glancing up from her knitting.

"Sorry, missus."

For a minute or so, there was silence in the little arched shelter, but that could never last, not when there were bombs falling. Pretty soon the old man with the birdcage started singing. His voice, thin and stretched with age, was overwhelmed by each rumbling explosion, only to resurface as the noise subsided. The woman smiled over her knitting; the two boys sniggered between themselves.

Everyone knew _Underneath the Arches_, of course. There was something cosy and old-fashioned about it, something that belonged to _before the war_; that long-distant time which, to Lilly, seemed almost like a dream. A vague recollection came to her, of someone singing that very song in the front room at home; Peter, probably, although it could have been their father in one of his rare good moods.

She snuggled a little closer to Rita, closed her eyes, and tried to let the gentleness of the singing drown out the terrifying din from the streets outside.

"It sounds like they're getting further away," remarked Alf.

"Probably not a proper raid," replied Bill, who was obviously a right know-it-all. "They come in from north-west, didn't they? Most likely they was on their way back from Birmingham or one of them places, and just had a few left over."

"Well, they needn't bleedin' well drop 'em here," grumbled Bet's husband. "Bet, did you turn off the gas? Last thing we want is the kettle boiling over again."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Jim. Yes, I turned off the gas, and the radio, and I've got the savings book, the sugar ration and your mother's wedding ring in my handbag."

With a sudden chill of dread, Lilly clutched at her pocket. The ration book was still there, to her great relief. She could feel Rita's breathing, interspersed with little catches, and it suddenly occurred to her that the grown-ups were just as scared as she was. The irritable comments of the man with the braces, his wife's dogged persistence with her knitting, even the argument between the two boys crouched against the back wall - all of it was just a way of keeping up a brave front. Well, she could be just as brave as any of them, even when she didn't have Mam and Maggie to look after her.

She found Rita's hand, and gave it a squeeze, and Rita squeezed back.

The old man with the budgie had started up again. After a couple of bars, other voices joined in. They were into the second repeat, when the loudest crash yet cut them off. For ten seconds, as the noise died away, nobody even breathed; then one lone voice answered back: "Missed us, you short-sighted bugger."

Lilly gave a slightly hysterical giggle; a splutter of laughter came from the two boys, and the man with the braces stared in astonishment. But his wife's eyes twinkled at Rita's scarlet face. "That's right, miss, you tell 'em," she said; and that cracked everyone up.

It was the last big one, although sporadic crashes continued for some time, gradually becoming more distant, until finally came the welcome sound of the all-clear. "About flippin' time," said Jim, as he stood up and went to open the doors.

Outside, a haze of dust and smoke shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight. Lilly scrambled to her feet, and snatched up her shopping basket.

"Hold up, kiddie. I'll see you home," said Rita, trying to find a graceful way to get up off the floor. She accepted Jim's offered hand, and took a moment to brush the dust from her skirt, while Lilly bobbed impatiently in the doorway. The two boys hurried off, intent on seeing what damage had been done, and hoping to find a few shrapnel fragments.

The old man took his coat back, uncovering the birdcage and drawing an anxious whistle from the budgerigar. He picked up the cage, nodded to the ladies, and went on his way.

"Thanks awfully for letting us into your shelter," said Rita to the man with the braces.

"My pleasure, love." He gave her a grin, the first sign of good humour he'd shown. "It's not mine, anyway. Some old geezer up in Stoke Newington's got the lease of it. But I'm sure he won't mind, specially as he won't never know. That little sister of yours is off, you'd best be after her."

Lilly couldn't wait, now that the bombs had stopped falling. She refused to admit any thought of what might have happened in Esk Road. Everyone would be all right, of course; but all the same, she was in a hurry. Mam would be cross as anything with her, if she was late. She heard the sharp tapping of Rita's high heels behind her, and slowed a little, just to let her catch up; and they turned the corner into Esk Road together.

"You see? Not even a broken window in the whole street," said Rita, her voice wobbling a little.

Other people were coming home, too; those who had sheltered in their houses had come outside to see what damage had been done. Over the rooftops, a blossoming of smoke showed where the nearest bomb had dropped; but Rita was right, Esk Road had escaped.

The front door of Number Twenty-Seven was closed. Lilly stood on the doorstep, momentarily at a loss. Then she rallied. "They'll have gone to the tube station. That's where we always go."

"You'd better wait here," Rita called after her. "It'll be crowded there, you might miss them."

But Lilly wasn't listening. At the far end of the street, someone had just come into sight; a recognisably gawky figure, walking very quickly, almost outrunning herself in her anxiety. Lilly broke into a run, and flung herself into Alice's arms. And Mam was right behind her.

For half a minute, an incomprehensible babble filled the street; Mam scolding, Alice exclaiming, Maggie and Noel adding their contributions at the top of their voices. Only Lilly didn't say anything, once she'd found her way into her mother's embrace.

Arthur had gone on past, but now he came back. "The house is still standing, Mum. Can we go in? Everyone's staring at us."

With a final hug, Mam released her youngest daughter, although she kept hold of Lilly's hand. "Take that basket, Maggie," she said, trying without success to sound as matter-of-fact as usual.

Lilly scrabbled in her pocket. "I didn't lose the ration book," she announced, holding it up in triumph.

"Who cares about the ration book?" Alice brushed it aside. "Where on earth have you been? We were worried sick about you, out there on your own."

"But I wasn't..." Lilly turned around. She gazed along the street, trying to find her new friend. But Rita had already gone.

For a moment, Lilly didn't know what to say. Finally she looked up at Mam.

"She's ever so nice," she said.

* * *

_Underneath the Arches_: written by Bud Flanagan (with co-writer Reg Connelly), and performed for many years by Flanagan and his stage partner, Chesney Allen. It can be found on YouTube; I recommend the 1941 recording.


	13. Miss Nottington and Miss Newkirk

With summer almost over, the weather had become unsettled. The rain-slicked skin of Tottenham Court Road glistened under the wheels of the passing traffic; and even though it wasn't cold, Mavis drew her coat close around her to keep out the damp.

She had walked very slowly from the bus stop, studying the contents of the shop windows as if there was nothing she wanted more than a new gas mask holder, or a book about the Suez Canal (_Light Reading for Dark Evenings_, as the placard in the window described it). When she reached the bicycle shop, she came to a stop, and stood gazing at the cycles lined up in the window, as precise and as utilitarian as an army squadron on assembly. Then she braced up, and started forward to the door which gave access to the flats above the row of shops.

She was in such a hurry that she was unable to avoid colliding with the young woman who came rushing out. Both staggered slightly at the impact, and a duet of apologies broke out, only to fade as they recognised each other.

Mavis was the first to regain some measure of composure. "Hello," she said awkwardly.

"Hello," replied Rita, pink with embarrassment.

An uncomfortable silence followed.

"I was just..."

"Were you looking for...?"

Both of them broke off. Mavis looked away, going red herself as she tried to suppress a nervous giggle; and her voice was distinctly wobbly when she spoke again. "Mam called round, but you weren't home, so I thought I'd just drop by on the chance."

"I'm out a lot," admitted Rita. "She left a note to say she'd like to have a chat, but I've not had a minute spare." She hesitated, then added diffidently, "I'd ask you in, but as a matter of fact I'm just off out now. I can't be late, I'm meeting a friend. One of the girls I work with at the jam factory," she added, sensing Mavis's disapproval. "We're going to the pictures."

Mavis blushed even deeper. "Well, I won't keep you," she said. "I just wanted to say thanks for looking after our Lilly the other day."

"Oh, that's all right," said Rita. "We looked after each other, really. But I thought it was Margaret."

"They're very much alike." Mavis made a mental note to have a word with her two youngest sisters. This business of pretending to be each other was getting beyond a joke.

"Actually, I was wanting a word with you, some time," Rita went on tentatively. "If you're not in a hurry, would you mind walking with me to the tube station?"

"No. I mean, no, I don't mind at all," said Mavis.

Neither of them spoke as they walked to the corner. Finally, Mavis broke the silence. "What was it you wanted to talk about, then?"

Rita glanced at her. She was taller than Mavis, but in spite of her dressy clothes and air of sophistication, she seemed the younger of the two, and she hesitated before she spoke. "I wanted to ask you something. Remember when you saw me on the bus, a few weeks ago? I was just wondering whether you'd said anything to Peter about it."

"You mean, about you and that sailor?"

"It wasn't what it looked like," said Rita, turning scarlet again. "I mean, it wasn't as bad as you probably think. It's just...well, you know how it is." She thought about how it was for a few moments, then sighed. "No, you probably don't, do you? You're probably quite happy sitting at home knitting socks for your young man overseas, no matter whether he wants them or not."

"I don't have a young man overseas, or anywhere else for that matter," replied Mavis. The thought came to her that she'd very much like to have one in particular; but so far, Karl Lutz remained just a regular passenger on her bus, and there seemed no way for either of them to get past their mutual shyness. In any case, that was none of Rita's business.

"Well, for all those little brothers and sisters of yours, then. Thing is, I'm not like that," Rita went on. "If I don't get out and have a bit of fun, it drives me up the wall. So me and some of the girls go to dances, or to the pictures, and if I meet someone and he asks me out, well, I'm not going to say no, am I? Pete knows all about it, and he doesn't mind. He would probably do the same himself, given half a chance. Oh, come on, you know he would. And there's nothing in it, you know. Mostly, anyway."

The last bit was spoken quite softly; Mavis wasn't even sure she'd heard it. "So what about your friend, the one you met outside Harrods that day?" she asked.

"Fred? Well, that's different again. We were at school together, back in Plymouth," said Rita. "We weren't best friends or anything, but we sort of knew each other. I hadn't seen him, or given him a thought, for years, till I bumped into him in Selfridges, last December. He'd been in service in Africa, caught a fever and got sent home on medical leave. Of course, he didn't know a soul in London, only me. So I went about with him a bit, just for the company. And it was all very nice and friendly, until Fred went and spoiled it by getting serious."

Mavis sighed. Anyone else would have seen that coming, but in some ways Rita seemed to be surprisingly naive. "And you didn't set him straight?"

"I did, at first. I tried, Mavis, I really did." In her earnestness, Rita forgot all about _Miss Newkirk_, and spoke as if to her own sister. "I told Fred to leave off, and he did. Then I got a letter from Peter, beginning of February. And I opened it up, and the first thing I read was, _Dear Ruby, thanks for the photo. The lads were very impressed. _I don't know if you happen to know about Ruby. Fan dancer, at the Windmill."

"He's never told me about any fan dancer," replied Mavis; and the lingering hostility between her and Rita started to fade as she contemplated this new enemy. Then she gave herself a shake. This wasn't about Ruby, whoever she was. "All right. I won't try to pretend Pete's perfect. I know he's got a wandering eye. It runs in the family. But it's not his fault if she sent him her picture, and it probably didn't matter to him that much anyway, else he wouldn't have shown it round all his mates, would he? Same with all his other birds, same with all those blokes you go out with. It's like you said, there's nothing in it."

"Oh, I know, it's just how he is. All the same, I was wild with him over it," said Rita. "So the next time I saw Fred...well, I was just a bit nicer to him, wasn't I?"

"Wasn't that a bit hard on Fred?" said Mavis, after a momentary hesitation. "Oh, Rita, you didn't ought to have done that."

"That's just what I thought, once I'd cooled off a bit. But by that time, Fred had got the wrong idea, and I didn't know what to do. The thing is, there was never anything definite between me and Peter. For all I know, he's got a dozen other girls, and I'm just one of the crowd. At least with Fred, I'd know where I was."

"I don't know about _one of the crowd_," observed Mavis, "but I can tell you which of Pete's girlfriends he talks about in his letters home, and it isn't Ruby."

A few drops of rain gave warning of an impending shower, and the two girls hastened their steps, to get under cover. But Mavis was still turning the story over in her mind, and she knew she had to say something. As soon as they reached the shelter of the Underground station, she took a deep breath, gathered up all her courage, and began. "Look, you'll probably tell me to keep my nose out of it, but you can't go on like that. It's not fair to Peter, and it's not fair to Fred. You're going to have to make up your mind."

"I already did." Rita moved aside from the crowded exit, and blinked a few raindrops from her eyes; at least, they might have been raindrops. "When I met up with Fred, the day you saw us, I told him. I felt just awful about it, but once I'd sat down and really thought about it, of course it was going to be Peter. Always has been, always will be. But I've not had a letter from him in weeks, and I started to think, maybe he heard about Fred, and he doesn't want anything to do with me any more. And I wouldn't be surprised, either." Her voice quivered, like a child trying to be brave.

"Well, he didn't hear it from me," said Mavis. "I shouldn't get so agitated about it, if I was you. I've not had much from him either, these past few months. He probably doesn't have a lot to write about, and they don't get much writing paper. He writes to Mam fairly often, but the last proper letter I had from him was back in February." She suddenly chuckled.

"What's so funny?" asked Rita.

"Peter wrote you'd sent him something for Christmas."

"I made him a plum pudding. It took almost all my points to get the makings, and I went without sugar for ages so I'd have enough for it," said Rita, pouting at the thought of all the effort she'd gone to.

"Well, just think about it," said Mavis, her eyes dancing. "If he sent you a note that was meant for Ruby, then she must have got one saying _Thanks for the Christmas pud_. Now, wouldn't you have loved to see the look on her face?"

Rita began to giggle. "I never thought of that."

For a few moments the two girls enjoyed the comfortable warmth of a shared joke; then Mavis spoke up, before things could get awkward again. "I should probably let you go, you don't want to miss the start of the picture."

"You wouldn't like to come along, would you?" said Rita impulsively.

Mavis shook her head. She hardly ever went to the cinema; it wasn't much fun for her, with her damaged hearing. "Some other time, maybe." She registered Rita's look of disappointment, and added, "Tell you what, though, if you're free Sunday afternoon, we're having a little tea party at home, for Mam's birthday."

"Oh, she wouldn't want me there," stammered Rita, halfway between diffidence and eagerness.

"Of course she would. We all would. Any time after two will be fine. Bring your own tea," said Mavis.

Rita hesitated, then broke into a bright smile. "I will. See you, then, Mavis."

"Bye, Rita. Take care."


	14. Birthday Blues

"Good morning, gentlemen."

Sergeant Schultz trundled into Barracks 2, shining with goodwill. The inmates barely acknowledged his arrival, though Carter, who was sitting on his bed cleaning his boots, did look up briefly.

"What's he in such a good mood about?" he asked LeBeau.

"Who knows?" LeBeau turned a suspicious glare on the rotund guard. "Maybe he ran over a badger on his way back from town, and he wants me to cook it for him."

"That's not very friendly, LeBeau," said Schultz, while the rest of the prisoners snickered. "What do you think, I can't be nice to you unless I want something?"

Newkirk leaned back in his chair, a cynical smile on his lips. "Well, based on your usual form, Schultz, it's an even money bet," he pointed out.

Schultz's good humour immediately bubbled up to a new level. "Good morning to you, Newkirk, and may I also say, happy birthday."

"You're out by a week," said Newkirk. "I don't get to celebrate another year spent in this flea-infested rat hole till next Thursday."

"Then your mother must have sent her letter early." Schultz held up the bundle of mail he'd kept hidden behind his back. Then, at the rush from every corner of the barracks, he held the letters above his head. "_Nein, das ist nicht in Ordnung_. You are being very unmilitary. Now, stand back, and wait properly."

"What's all the racket?" Colonel Hogan had emerged from his office, and stood with his hands on his hips. "For Pete's sake, Schultz, for once couldn't you bring the mail without making a song and dance out of it?" He strolled up and tweaked the letters out of Schultz's hand.

"He's been reading them again," said Newkirk, regarding the offender with disapproval.

"I only just peeked over the Kommandant's shoulder once or twice," protested Schultz.

"Still counts, Schultz." Hogan was flicking through the envelopes; he extracted one, and handed it to Newkirk. "And frankly, it's not good enough. We don't go reading your letters."

Schultz grunted. "I don't get any letters. When my wife wants more money, she sends a telegram. You're welcome to read those any time."

He took himself off, leaving Hogan to distribute the rest of the mail. Newkirk had already opened his letter. "Well, how about that, then?" he said.

Carter came to look over his shoulder. "Hey, Newkirk got a photo. Gosh, is that your mom? She's real pretty. Well, for someone's mom, anyway."

Newkirk nodded. "That's Mam, with the kiddies." He'd grown out of calling her _Mam_ years ago, but just for a moment he had forgotten that.

"They all look nice. Very respectable," remarked LeBeau, who had worked his way in front of Carter.

"They do, don't they?" Newkirk didn't even try to hide his pride. "They're not all there, which is a shame. Kathleen and Gwen are both working out of London, and Harry...well, who knows? That's Mavis." His fingers just brushed his sister's face, and he smiled. "She hasn't changed a bit. But the kids..." His voice trailed off.

"Who's that standing behind your mother?" asked Kinch. "Looks just like you."

"That's Arthur, and that there is Alice. They'd be fourteen now. Twins. This one's Maggie - no, Lilly. That's Maggie, sitting next to Mam. And that there..." The smile faded a little. "That's Noel," he said, after a moment. "Blimey, hasn't he grown?"

His eyebrows drew in, as he studied the image; a sturdy little boy, his features just starting to lose the softness of childhood. His smile looked a little forced, as if he wasn't sure who he was supposed to be smiling at.

"Boy, are you ever lucky, being in a big family," said Carter. "It must be real fun whenever you all get together."

"I suppose it is." Newkirk slipped the photograph back into the envelope, and unfolded the letter, and for the next ten minutes he was to all appearances immersed in what his mother had to say. But whatever it was, he didn't share it. He folded the letter and put it away, before joining in the general conversation with his usual energy.

Gradually the prisoners scattered to their morning routine: making up their bunks, cleaning the barracks, hoodwinking the Kommandant. Hogan headed off to take care of that chore, while the rest of the men put their happy home in order. Nobody commented when Newkirk slipped away; but it was noticed.

Carter looked at LeBeau, and LeBeau looked at Carter; then both of them looked at Kinch, who read their unspoken thoughts, and sighed. "Okay, I'm going."

He found Newkirk sitting on the low bench outside the barracks, shuffling a deck of cards. At sight of Kinch, the double crease between his eyebrows smoothed out. "I was just thinking, Kinch, it's payday for the goons. What do you think about inviting Schultz to a game of pontoon this afternoon?"

"Well, we can always use the extra cash," said Kinch, taking the other end of the bench. They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the guards patrolling back and forth.

"So, how's your mom doing, anyway?" asked Kinch.

"Oh, she says she's getting along," replied Newkirk. "She's not one to complain, of course."

"You're worried about her?"

"No more than usual."

Another minute passed by.

"That sure is a nice family photo," said Kinch.

Newkirk's lips twitched into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It is, isn't it? Mind you, it's a bit of a shock, seeing them all growing up so fast."

"Well, that's what kids do."

"You know, I was just thinking about the last time we all had a day out," said Newkirk. "Must have been '38, I was still going round with the circus. We had a week's layover in Margate, so Mam brought the kids up on the train, just for the day. Course, Harry took off somewhere as soon as he got the chance, and Gwen had the sulks because she wanted to go to the pictures. But the rest of them absolutely loved it. The little ones - Noel and Lilly - they'd never been to the seaside before. So we ended up spending the whole day at the beach."

He gave a soft, reminiscent laugh. "Noel had this old football with him. God knows where he got it, it looked like it had been buried in a peat bog for a couple of hundred years, but he insisted on carting it round with him. He had no idea what to do with it. He'd put it down on the ground, take a few steps back, run in for the kick, miss it completely and land flat on his backside. And then he'd get up and have another go. Couldn't have been more than four, but he was a stubborn little nipper."

"I wonder who he got that from," murmured Kinch.

"All right, I'll admit it runs in the family," said Newkirk, with a grin. "Anyway, I gave him a bit of coaching, taught him the outside curve. He took to it pretty well, considering how short his legs were. So we ended up playing, me and him against Arthur and Maggie. Best fun I'd had for years. And I kept thinking, I'll be back in London at Christmas, I'll be able to spend more time with the little 'uns."

He paused, as one of the guards went past, and remained silent even after the goon was out of earshot.

"And did you? I mean, did you go home for Christmas?" asked Kinch eventually.

Newkirk shook his head, and smiled ruefully. "By Christmas I was doing pantomime in Whitby, frocking up every night as one of Cinderella's stepsisters. Even when I did move back to town, a couple of months later - well, I doubt I saw any of them but Mavis more than three times in the whole year. Then the war started, and that was that."

"The war's not exactly your fault."

"No. But I wish I'd known. I'd have gone round home a bit more often. See, the thing is, Kinch...well, it I suppose it doesn't matter, does it? Only I looked at Noel in that picture just now, and I thought, he probably doesn't even remember the last time he saw me."

"I doubt that," said Kinch. But he had to admit to himself, there was truth in the assertion, not just for Newkirk, but for every prisoner at Stalag 13. There wasn't a man there who didn't have personal experience of the consequences of their long, enforced absence from home.

For a minute or so, neither of them spoke; then Newkirk straightened up. "Well, it can't be helped. I never was much cop at the older brother lark anyway. Even if I wasn't stuck in the middle of Germany, chances are I'd be off somewhere else. At least here I can try and get this ruddy war won, before he's old enough to get called up."

Kinch chuckled softly. Sooner or later, that stiff upper lip always reasserted itself. "Well, separating Schultz from his pay sounds like a good way to start the campaign. Why don't you get the pontoon game rolling, and I'll go and find him."

"Righto." Newkirk stood up, and stretched his shoulders in preparation for the contest ahead. "And while I'm waiting for Schultz, I might just have a go at getting Carter to put up his next Red Cross package."

"Newkirk, that's not nice," said Kinch, trying not to grin, and failing.

Newkirk grinned back. "Let's call it an early birthday present," he replied, and with his melancholy mood dispelled for now, he strolled back indoors to do what they all did every day: make the best of things.


	15. Lost and Found

Newkirk's birthday was marked by his mates in the appropriate manner, with a cake, a few small gifts (mostly chocolate and cigarettes from their Red Cross parcels) and the blowing up of a munitions dump.

"It was a nice touch, Carter, gift-wrapping the demolition pack," remarked Hogan, once they were safely back in the tunnel complex beneath Stalag 13.

"It didn't seem to cheer him up any," said Carter despondently.

"I'm sure he appreciated the thought," replied Kinch. "Only he's got a lot on his mind right now. You know how it gets, when you've been away from home for a while, and Newkirk's had longer than most of us."

"I guess so. But it doesn't seem natural, him being so...so...well, I mean, we were playing cards this afternoon, and he didn't cheat. Not even once." Carter looked from Kinch to Hogan, wide-eyed with concern.

"Okay, tell you what," said Hogan, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll have a word with him, tell him you're upset about not being taken for everything you've got, and tell him to lift his game. I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige."

"You think so?" Carter brightened at once. "Boy, I hope so. Thanks, Colonel." He scampered off to change out of his black working clothes.

Newkirk had already done so, and gone up to the barracks. Quietly, so as not to wake his sleeping barracks mates, he hauled himself up onto his bunk, and by the time the rest of the team emerged from below, he was hidden under the thin blanket, apparently dead to the world. Carter peered up at him, hesitating on the brink of saying something, but a warning look from Hogan discouraged him. He sighed, and crawled into his own bunk, and within minutes was slumbering peacefully.

In fact, Newkirk was far from sleep. He wouldn't admit it, but in the last few days, almost without realising it, he'd built up hopes of getting a letter from home today. He knew, as they all did, how slow the mail from England could be, and how irregular. Mavis wouldn't forget his birthday, even if the younger members of the family - Noel, Lilly, Maggie, even the twins - had no particular reason to remember it. Anyway, he'd had a letter from Mam only last week, and the family picture as well. But knowing how idiotic his unspoken hope was didn't do anything to ease his disappointment.

Daybreak found him in no better frame of mind. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, vaguely aware of the subdued voices and stirrings around him; the soft patter of LeBeau's bare feet on the floor, heading for the stove, then a soft clatter as he put the kettle on to boil; and a muffled scrabbling sound from below, where Carter was apparently taking his bed to pieces. Then came a plaintive inquiry: "Did anyone take my watch? I can't find it."

Newkirk rolled over to peer down at him. "It's not fallen in one of your boots again?"

"I already checked. There's nothing in there but my socks."

"Where did you have it last, André?" asked LeBeau.

Carter gave an exaggerated sigh. "If I knew that, it wouldn't be lost, would it?"

"Maybe you left it in the tunnel last night," said Kinch. "No, don't go and look for it now, roll call is in..."

"Four minutes." Hogan's voice joined in, finishing the sentence. He had been standing in the doorway of his office, unnoticed by his men, listening. "So put your socks on, Carter. You can't turn out for assembly in bare feet. Or in your nightshirt, Newkirk."

They all knew the gleam of quizzical mockery in his eyes. It didn't encourage dawdling. By the time Sergeant Schultz arrived to summon them, even Newkirk was fully dressed, although his unshaven chin and scruffy appearance earned a vaguely maternal reproof: "Newkirk, you look terrible."

"Sorry, Schultz. I must have overdone the birthday festivities last night," said Newkirk. "It's hard work, playing _Pass the Parcel_ at two in the morning."

Carter uttered a low snigger. "Yeah, that was one parcel nobody wanted."

"What do you mean - no, don't tell me." Schultz held up a hand to ward off any further admissions. "Just go and line up for roll call, and please, for once don't give me any trouble. _Raus_, everybody, _raus_."

With the customary grumbling, jostling and back-answering, the prisoners ambled out and took their places in the morning sunshine to be counted off.

"Nice day for it, Schultz," remarked Hogan, as the guard made his way along the front rank.

"Nice day for what?" asked Schultz, bristling with suspicion.

"Well, for anything, really. How about a trip to the seaside?"

"And maybe a short boat ride, across the Channel," added Newkirk. "One way, of course. We wouldn't want to overdo it."

"Jolly jokers," muttered Schultz, turning away.

Hogan's bored, indifferent gaze, apparently at random, drifted towards the main gate. The night patrol had just returned from their final sweep of the woods outside the camp. Most of them headed for the barracks; but the sergeant in charge split off from the group, marching straight across towards the Kommandant's office. As he approached, Colonel Klink came out to receive Schultz's morning report. Sergeant Meckler intercepted him at the foot of the stairs, saluted and began to talk rapidly.

"What's Meckler's problem?" asked Kinch.

"No idea...uh-oh," finished Hogan, as Meckler produced something from his pocket and tried to show it to the Kommandant.

"Hey, he's got my...ow!" Carter's exclamation broke off abruptly, owing to a sharp kick in the ankle from Kinch. His claim was superfluous, anyway; they all knew whose watch it was, dangling from Meckler's fingers.

Klink's voice echoed across the yard. "And I'm responsible for lost-and-found now, am I? Oh, all right, put it on my desk. I'll keep it until we see if anyone claims it."

"Well, that's just dandy," muttered Kinch. "One of the patrol must have picked it up in the woods."

"I guess it must have fallen off," said Carter. "The strap was getting kind of worn out, maybe it just snapped. But it's not so bad. At least it doesn't have my name on it."

"No, it's just got _US Army _engraved on the back," replied Hogan grimly. "The last thing we need is Klink asking questions about how one of our watches ended up on the wrong side of the fence, on the same night that a local munitions dump just happened to go up. We have to get it back before he has a chance to look at it."

"And just how are we going to do that?" asked Newkirk.

"Report!" Klink, having disposed of Meckler, came striding across the yard. Schultz hurried to meet him.

"Who's on cleaning duty this morning?" murmured Hogan. "Newkirk? Okay, grab one of the spare watches out of the supply, and switch it for Carter's while you're dusting Klink's desk. I'll keep him out of the way." He paused for a moment, considering how best to do this, then sighed. "Sorry, guys. Looks like I'll have to sacrifice the art gallery."

"Prisoners, dismissed!" bellowed Schultz. Hogan nodded to Newkirk, and strolled off after Klink, while the men returned to the barracks. Newkirk went straight to the footlocker where, behind a false lining, a selection of wristwatches were stored, ready for outfitting escaping Allied flyers. Without hesitation he picked out the plainest of them and slipped it into his pocket. Then he snatched up a broom and duster, and left the barracks.

Klink was still on the steps of the Kommandantur, arguing with Hogan. "...if the prisoners have, as you claim, been writing insults about me on the walls of the delousing station..."

"And drawing pictures, as well," Hogan put in.

"...then I have two questions for you. Why hasn't Schultz reported them, and why are you telling me?"

"Schultz didn't say anything because he didn't want his own men to get into trouble," explained Hogan. "A couple of the guards are pretty handy with a pencil, you know. And I'm reporting it because - well, because you know how the Gestapo like to poke around the place, and if Hochstetter should see what the guys wrote about _him_..."

A sudden gleam of interest lit up Klink's monocle. "They've been writing about Hochstetter?"

"Oh, boy, have they ever!" Hogan gave a wicked chuckle. "And some of it's pretty...I mean, it's disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful. You want to see it?"

"It's not a question of what I want, Hogan. It's a question of discipline." By an almost superhuman effort, Klink managed to dismiss his gleeful smirk. "Regardless of my own feelings, I have a duty to inspect this - this vandalism, and see exactly how good - I mean, how bad it is...Yes, Newkirk, what do you want?"

"Just here to clean your office, sir," replied Newkirk.

"Very well." Klink turned to the guard standing at the door. "Langenscheidt, keep an eye on him. Hogan, show me this art gallery of yours." He swung round and stalked off in the direction of the delousing station, while Newkirk proceeded into the office.

He paused in the doorway. "Blimey, what a mess this place gets in," he remarked. "What is it about officers, eh? If they didn't have us enlisted blokes to pick up after 'em, I don't know how they'd survive. Just hold that for me, will you?"

He thrust the broom into Langenscheidt's hands, and started dusting the bookshelf. "Ours is just as bad, you know," he went on, with deliberate mendacity. "Doesn't know one end of a mop from the other. I think it's something to do with the training they get at those bleedin' military academies."

The watch was in plain sight, in the middle of the blotter on Klink's desk. Swapping it for the one in his pocket would be easy enough. Nor was there any need to rush the job, as it would take Klink some time to finish his perusal of the delousing station walls. The lively sketches of Hochstetter's supposed amatory adventures, while lacking in artistic merit, were nevertheless worthy of careful study. When the Kommandant finished with those, Hogan would direct his attention to the lengthy poem contributed by the reprobates in Barracks 9, detailing General Burkhalter's various conquests. In dactylic hexameter, naturally; nothing else would do justice to such an epic subject.

Finishing the bookcase, Newkirk moved on to the safe, and from there to the filing cabinet in the corner. Finally, he approached the desk, and ran the duster over the spiked helmet which occupied pride of place, right next to the humidor, the framed photographs of Klink's parents, and the ornate but completely impractical inkwell. How Klink managed to work amid so much clutter was one of the great mysteries of the war.

Not that he had much work on at the moment. The only items awaiting his attention this morning were Carter's watch and a pile of letters. Newkirk's eye passed over them, then flickered back, as his mind belatedly recognised the censor's stamp which embellished the envelope at the top of the heap. It took only a moment longer to register that it was addressed, in the carefully joined-up writing of a very young hand, to him.

It was too early in the morning for any mail to have arrived today. These letters - the prisoners' incoming mail - had been sitting here since at least yesterday. He'd spent the whole day wondering whether any of his family remembered his birthday, and all the while a letter from one of them - he still didn't know which one - had been right here on Klink's desk.

Newkirk glanced surreptitiously at Langenscheidt. He would have to distract the guard anyway, so he could grab Carter's watch. It would take barely a second longer to filch the letter as well. It was his, anyway; why should that bald-headed git Klink get to read it first?

But on the other hand, Klink might realise it was gone. He had a kind of sixth sense where the inmates of Barracks 2 were concerned, so a letter addressed to one of them, and clearly written by a child, wouldn't escape his notice. In any case, all letters to the prisoners were logged on delivery. If one went missing, questions would be asked.

Newkirk looked out of the window, his jaw tightening as he argued it out with himself. Then he turned around. "I'll have that broom now - blimey, did you see that?"

"What?" Langenscheidt swung round, his eyes following the line of Newkirk's gaze.

"Bloody great rat just ran behind the filing cabinet," said Newkirk.

Langenscheidt gave voice to a squeak of alarm, and dropped the broom. "A rat? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I grew up in London, I know a rat when I see one."

"Then you must get rid of it before the Kommandant finds out."

"Me? You're the one with a gun." Newkirk edged around the desk. "Besides, prisoners of war aren't supposed to do dangerous work. Article 32, Geneva Prisoner of War Convention. You'll have to do it yourself. Off you go."

For a moment, Langenscheidt seemed to be frozen to the spot, but he braced, raised his rifle, and advanced on the cabinet. Almost on tiptoe, he peered behind it. "I can't see anything," he announced.

"It must have escaped out the other side," said Newkirk. "They're cunning little devils, and this one's a German as well, so...well, never mind. Maybe it'd be best if we didn't tell the Kommandant. Least said, soonest mended, right?"

"But what if it comes back?" stammered Langenscheidt, still craning to look behind the cabinet.

"Well, it'll be someone else's problem by then, won't it?" replied Newkirk, with a dismissive flick of his fingers.

He picked up the broom and began to rearrange the dust on the floor, a process which ceased abruptly when the Kommandant burst through the door.

"...and what's more, Hogan, your men will paint the entire delousing station, inside and out, as well as - Haven't you finished yet?"

This last was directed at Newkirk, who hastily shouldered his broom. "Just done, sir."

"Then take yourself off. Langenscheidt, go back to your duties."

Juggling the broom and duster from one hand to the other, and almost dropping both, Newkirk saluted, nodded quickly to Hogan, and departed.

He sauntered across the yard with a carefree swagger, which vanished as soon as he was inside the barracks. "Here, take the bloody thing," he said tersely, dropping the watch into Carter's hand. Then he went to the window, and turned his back on his mates.

"Thanks," murmured Carter, but there was no response.

A few minutes later, Hogan returned to the barracks. "Good job, Newkirk," he said, "but what did you say to Langenscheidt? He nearly jumped out of his skin when I came out of the office."

Newkirk shrugged. "Told him I saw a rat."

"Well, that should keep him on his toes," Hogan chuckled. "Got your watch back, Carter?"

"Yes, sir. And I won't lose it again, you bet I won't," replied Carter.

"Make sure you don't." Hogan leaned on the upright post at the end of the bunk next to the window. "Newkirk, I don't suppose you noticed that Klink had some letters on his desk - letters not addressed to him?"

In spite of himself, Newkirk flushed. "I might have just spotted them, Colonel."

"Funny thing, how clumsy I get sometimes when I'm in his office," Hogan went on. "Of course, he really shouldn't have left them so close to the edge of the desk. So it wasn't really my fault they got knocked onto the floor, and I can't imagine how this one ended up in my pocket. But seeing as it did, you might as well get a look at it before Klink does." He held out an envelope; the same one which had so sorely tested Newkirk's self-control. "Call it a reward for not helping yourself. But read fast. I have to get it back on his desk before he finds out it's gone."

He turned away to speak to Kinch, allowing Newkirk the nearest to privacy that was possible in the barracks.

For a few seconds, Newkirk just stared at the envelope. Then he flipped it over, and drew out a single sheet of paper, creased and speckled with ink blots. But the faulty penmanship couldn't spoil his pleasure at this late, unexpected birthday present.

_Dear Peter, _

_How are you? I am well. Sory I didnt rite before. I hope you have a good birtday birthday, sory my speling isnt very good yet. I am in class 4b now. My techer is Miss Jennings. She is nice. I play football at school. We played against Watton Street school last week and won 3-2. I nearly got a goal in the first half and then in the second half I did what you showed me when we went to Margate and I got a goal and we won. Next week we are going to play at Wanstead. I will rite and tell you how we get on. We are haveing woolton pie for dinner. I cant think of anything else to rite today. Mam sends her best luve. Me too. From __Noel._

Newkirk read it twice through. Every word of it was precious, but one small remark shone like gold. His little brother hadn't forgotten him; one summer's day in Margate, playing football on the beach, would keep them close even though years might pass. He lingered over it briefly, then carefully folded the letter, put it into the envelope, and gave it back to Hogan. "Thanks, Colonel," he said. 'You'd better put it back now."

"You look pretty cheerful about it," observed Kinch, smiling. "Good news?"

"Very good news, actually." Newkirk's own grin might have lit up the whole of London. "My little brother's going to be a star footballer. Gets it from me, you know. I taught him everything he knows."


	16. Pastorale

The pale grey light of an autumn dawn, filtered by the low-lying mist, crept across the fields as if reluctant to start the day. The sight of it dampened Kathleen's spirits, and made her toes twitch inside their boots as she remembered the fierce itch which had preceded last year's crop of chilblains, and those of the year before.

Another cold, damp, miserable winter to look forward to in Lincolnshire; more mud, more cold, more endless, gruelling work. Those girls on the Land Army recruiting posters, with their perfect hair, immaculate uniforms and beaming smiles, as they fed the chickens, tended to orphaned lambs or leaned on their pitchforks, gazing with smug satisfaction at a neatly cleared hayfield, bore little resemblance to the reality of farm work.

With a sigh, Kathleen turned her back on the unhappy prospect outside the stable yard. "Whose turn is it?" she asked.

"I think it should actually be Linda's turn," replied Sylvia at length, her eyebrows drawing in as she considered. "But as the dear girl isn't with us any more, I suppose that means it falls to you." She finished with a cool, restrained smile.

"That'd be right. Where's the milking stool?"

Violet ran to fetch it from just inside the stable door. "I must say, it's all a bit odd, Linda tootling off so unexpectedly," she remarked as she returned. "She's only been here three months. What do you suppose took her off in such a hurry?"

Sometimes Violet was almost unbelievably innocent. Kathleen suppressed a giggle, but Sylvia remained perfectly serious as she replied. "Linda is about to embark on a new adventure. You see, sometimes one meets a soldier who has come home on a week's leave, and occasionally one forgets that certain behaviour brings with it certain consequences, even after the soldier has gone back to North Africa. So it is with our friend Linda. Regrettably, there are no Land Army duties suitable for a young woman who is..."

She paused, searching for an acceptable euphemism, but Kathleen found one first: "Up the duff."

Violet clearly had no idea what this meant. With a rueful glance at Kathleen, Sylvia spelled it out. "Linda is expecting." Then, as Violet continued to look perplexed, she added, "A baby."

"Oh, dear," said Violet. "That's going to be awfully hard to explain to the vicar."

"Frightfully," agreed Kathleen, her accent sliding effortlessly to match Vi's upper-middle class vowels. "Now, suppose you put that bleedin' stool down so we can get on."

Violet blushed, and placed the stool with care, just below the shoulder of the enormous Shire horse. None of the girls could fit Betsy's harness without a little elevation. Even Kathleen, the tallest of the Newkirk girls (although Maggie, according to home letters, was likely to overtake her before much longer), needed to stand on the milking stool, and Violet had to be excused this task altogether, as there wasn't a ladder available.

The big collar was the easy part; weighty and awkward, but straightforward enough. But the harness always caused problems. Betsy considered the bit an affront to her independence, and she usually turned stroppy over it. Today, however, she seemed quite docile, submitting with unusual meekness to the insertion of the bit, but as Kathleen went to lift the headpiece over her ears, the big mare turned her head, just enough to give her adversary a gentle nudge. The milking stool tipped over, and Kathleen, with a squeal of alarm, landed with a thump at Sylvia's feet.

She sat up at once, rubbing her elbow. "Oh, you spiteful bloody cow!"

"She's not a cow, Kath," remonstrated Violet. "She's a horse."

"Actually, we're neither of us right," snapped Kathleen. "She's a b..."

Sylvia cut her off. "Yes, I daresay. Are you alright? Nothing damaged?"

"Nothing but my dignity," replied Kathleen. "Well, what are you lot sniggering at?" The question was directed at the little group of men who were watching from the other side of the fence.

"Just enjoying the show, love," replied the one in charge, an older man in army uniform. Bill was an old friend, one of the guards at the prisoner of war camp at Cheldon Heath. For as long as Kathleen had been at Stokes Farm, he had been in charge of the work details of Italian, and more recently, German prisoners sent over to help keep the farm work going.

Today, it seemed he'd brought a mixed lot. The two young men leaning on the fence, exchanging jokes in their native tongue, were certainly Italian, but their blond, blue-eyed companion could have been exhibited as an archetype of the Aryan ideal. He stood a little apart from his fellow prisoners, as if he wasn't really with them.

Kathleen didn't mind the Italians; they were pretty good-natured, and seemed to take their situation in good part. Anyway, the Ities weren't the ones who were dropping bombs on London, and keeping her brother in a prison camp. All the same, she glared at them as she scrambled to her feet, assisted by her fellow Land Girls.

At least the German corporal (or whatever they called it) wasn't laughing at her. But then, he was a miserable so-and-so; in all the time he'd been working here, she'd never even seen him crack a smile.

She turned away from her unwanted audience, and glowered at Betsy, who flattened her ears and showed the whites of her eyes as she prepared for the second round.

"_Entschuldigung_."

Kathleen glanced back over her shoulder. The fair-haired young man had climbed over the fence and was now approaching, holding out his hand. Momentarily surprised, she gave him the harness, and watched in silent wonder as he moved towards the mare. Betsy tossed her head slightly, but became still at a few murmured words from her new friend, and accepted the harness without further protest. She didn't even make a fuss when he coaxed her back between the shafts of the cart.

Bill waited until the job was done before asserting his authority. "Righto, Ahrens, that'll do. Get back over here."

"Thanks," murmured Kathleen. She climbed into the cart and took the reins, while Ahrens opened the gate and fell in with the two Italians.

The maincrop potato harvest was the only occasion where the Land Girls and the prisoners worked side-by-side. In general they were kept strictly separated; if the girls were tending the livestock, the men would be sent to clear ditches. But when the potatoes had to come up, everyone mucked in. Mr Stokes's children stayed home from school to help out, and Bill even lent a hand if his lumbago wasn't acting up.

After two days of stooping, Kathleen was almost ready to plead lumbago, too. But she had an unspoken agreement with Sylvia that neither of them would be the first to give in. So she persevered, doing some of the digging now and then by way of a break; or she took Betsy and the cart back to the barn to unload the big baskets of earthy spuds, with Luca or Antonio to help with the lifting, and to indulge in a little flirtation. Somehow, those two never seemed to get too tired to try it on, and her merciless snubbing of their amatory advances didn't discourage them at all.

"One more day," groaned Sylvia, as the three girls wheeled their bicycles down the hill towards their billet in the village; they were too sore to ride them. "One more day, and after that, we won't have to look at a potato again till planting time."

"What if Mrs Bradshaw's made bangers and mash for tea?" asked Violet.

"Or fish cakes with chips?" added Kathleen. "Or maybe she's got one of those potato pies of hers - you know, the one with Bovril gravy on it."

All three of them fell silent as they contemplated the prospect of their landlady's Bovril gravy.

"You know, girls, I don't think I'm hungry," said Sylvia. "I think I'll just have a hot bath and then turn in."

So appealing was this idea to her weary companions that they unconsciously hastened their steps, the sooner to reach their beds.

As they entered the house, Mrs Bradshaw came out of the sitting room. "Did you hear the news?" she burst out. "It were on the wireless, the Italians have surrendered."

Violet was already halfway up the stairs, but Kathleen stopped, with her hand on the newel post, and turned a querying eye towards Sylvia. "Do you suppose that means we don't have to dig up potatoes tomorrow?"

"I very much doubt it," replied Sylvia. "It's only the Italians."

Kathleen drew a deep breath, and started upwards.

"In that case," she said, "who gives a toss?"

* * *

Note: the armistice between Italy and the Allied forces was signed on 3rd September, 1943, but wasn't made public until the 8th.

Bovril is the brand name of a kind of thick meat extract.


	17. Other People's Families

As it happened, the news from Italy had one immediate result. The following morning, the work detail of prisoners never arrived at Stokes Farm.

"Had word from the camp," said Mr Stokes, in the slow lilt which had seemed so incomprehensible to Kathleen once upon a time. "There were some skarmishin' last night amongen the prisoners, along of the Italians surrenderin'. So the lads weant be coomin' today."

"Them rotten beggars in Rome might have waited a few days before chucking it in," grumbled Kathleen.

"Maybe they didn't know about the potatoes. Do they have potatoes in Italy?" asked Violet, quite seriously.

"No, dear. They have pasta farms," replied Sylvia with equal gravity. "I stayed on one in Tuscany, years ago. Every morning we had breakfast on the terrace, overlooking the fields of ripening tortellini. It's a beautiful sight."

"She's having us on, Vi," said Kathleen. "Pasta doesn't grow on farms. It lives in the wild, and they have to set traps for it."

"You must think I'm an awful goose," giggled Violet. "Well, I'm not silly enough to fall for that." She meditated for a few seconds, then went on, "I'd love to see those tortellini fields one day, though. Do you suppose they're still there?"

"We can but hope," murmured Sylvia. "In the meantime, there's a field here to deal with."

It was a long, hard day's work. To help make up for the lack of the prisoners, the farmer's wife pitched in, and her eighty-year-old father took charge of Betsy and the cart. But they hardly made up for the absence of three able-bodied young men, and the bulk of the extra work fell to the girls.

"I hope they're not gone for good," said Sylvia, during their brief tea break in the middle of the afternoon. "I'd even put up with having my bottom pinched, if it meant Antonio was around to do the heavy work."

She was leaning against the wheel of the cart, too weary to sit down. Violet, her head pillowed on her folded arms on top of one of the filled baskets, looked as if she'd fallen asleep on her feet.

The ache in Kathleen's lower back made standing still uncomfortable. She paced slowly a few yards along one furrow, then down the next one, until her foot kicked against something lying in the dirt. She stooped to pick it up: a small wallet, made of brown leather worn soft with age and use.

Before she could investigate further, she heard the farmer's voice: "Now then, lasses, them potatoes wean't dig themselves." She thrust the wallet into her pocket, and went back to work, determined not to let this cow of a job stretch on into another day.

Apparently Sylvia and Vi had come independently to the same resolution. It was late when the final cartload set off for the barn, and the girls were dismissed; but they went home in the evening with the satisfaction of knowing they'd done with the potato harvest for another year.

It wasn't until Kathleen, alone in the tiny bedroom she shared with Violet, was wearily undressing that she remembered the wallet; and then only because it fell out of her pocket when she took off her dungarees. She sat on the bed to examine it.

All it contained was a photograph; a slightly over-exposed snapshot of a woman and two girls, standing in front of a splendidly unkempt rose bush. The mother shaded her eyes with her hand; her daughters squinted against the bright sunlight. On the back was a faintly pencilled inscription: _Donauwörth, Sommer 1940._

Kathleen studied it for a long time. It seemed so ordinary, for something from enemy territory. She was sure there was a nearly identical photo of herself, with Mam and Mavis, taken in Auntie Gladys's garden on a visit to Shrewsbury.

At last she slipped the picture back into its wallet, turned off the light, and went to look out of the window. Outside, with the blackout in force, the only light was from the moon, just past first quarter.

It was too late to do anything tonight. Maybe Mr Stokes could send one of his boys to deliver the wallet to the camp tomorrow. Anyway, she wouldn't worry about it now. She put it under her pillow, so Violet wouldn't see it and start asking a lot of questions, then finished changing into her dressing gown, ready to go and take her bath as soon as Vi finished hers.

"You were awfully restless last night, Kath," observed Violet the following morning over breakfast. "What on earth were you dreaming about?"

"Nothing," replied Kathleen brusquely. She didn't feel up to explaining the muddle of images which had disturbed her sleep, and which now seemed so faded and disjointed, although she was certain Peter had been part of it, and the two little girls in the garden at Donauwörth; and for some reason she couldn't fathom, she had a feeling the entire cast of _ITMA _had been there, too.

Violet wasn't so easily put off. "You must have a guilty conscience," she said.

Kathleen's lips thinned, but before she could snap out a response, Sylvia intervened. "Violet, if you don't want your bacon, I'm sure I can find a safe place for it."

The diversion worked. Violet hastily disposed of her single rasher. "Mind you," she remarked, "I can never look the pigs in the eye after we've had bacon for breakfast. It does seem awfully unfair to keep feeding them, and not tell them why."

"Look at it this way, my dear. Would it make them any happier if they knew?" said Sylvia.

Violet had to think about that, so breakfast was finished in peace.

As the three girls cycled in the morning dim towards the farm, Kathleen came to a sudden decision. "Can you two go on ahead?" she said. "I've got an errand to run. And it might take me a while, so..."

"Yes, we'll cover for you," replied Sylvia. "Goodness knows, you've done the same for us often enough. But I shall expect a full report in due course."

"You'll get one. But you'll be disappointed." Kathleen did a slow turn and pedaled back towards the village; but at the crossroad, instead of taking the left, she turned right, towards Cheldon Heath and the prison camp.

She didn't like the heath. Sometimes in summer the girls would come out here on one of their rare days off, but the wide, flat landscape, with its low scrubby bushes and remote horizon, was too alien for Kathleen to ever feel at home. There was nowhere to hide here; nowhere to take shelter if she needed to. So she rode fast, and her heart jumped a little every time her eyes caught anything moving in the distant edges of the sky; and she could almost have burst into tears when at last a vague feature far ahead resolved into the barbed-wire enclosure and high watch-towers of the camp.

She came to a stop for a few moments, to calm her nerves. The guards on patrol at the gate were staring at her; it was almost enough to make her give up the whole idea then and there. It was a ridiculous idea, anyway; they wouldn't let a civilian in. Especially not a female civilian.

_Well, I'm here now,_ she thought. _I might as well give it a shot._

"I'd like to see the governor," she announced coolly, when challenged at the gate.

"What's it about, miss?" asked the guard. He had a cast in one eye, which looked past her while the other regarded her with a cynical gleam.

"That's between me and him."

"Is that right? Well, Major Fiske keeps regular office hours. Come back in an hour, maybe he'll see you then."

Kathleen glowered. "I'd love to, but by then I have to be back at Stokes Farm, mucking out the chickens. Some of us have proper work to do, you know. So if you don't mind..."

"It's all right, Chalky, I know the lass." The interruption came from Bill, the guard who usually brought the work party to the farm. "Hey up, Kathleen. What brings you here this fine morning?"

It occurred to Kathleen that she could save herself a lot of trouble by asking Bill to take care of things; but she hadn't ridden all the way out here just to turn round and ride back. Instead, she turned away from the wall-eyed git on the gate, and spoke to Bill: "Any chance of a word with the boss?"

"Well, now, that's a question," said Bill. "There's rules, you see. We're not supposed to have visitors except on official business. Is it official business?"

He nodded his head slightly, and Kathleen, after a moment of hesitation, picked up the prompt. "It might be. That's for him to say."

"All right then, I'll see if he's available. You just wait right here." And Bill waddled off to make enquiries.

From somewhere on the other side of the camp, the voices of men rose in song. Kathleen couldn't make out the words, but they sounded Italian. "They been at it for two days," remarked Chalky, apparently disposed to be friendly now that he was no longer responsible. "Can't get them to shut up."

Bill came back, waving to his mate to open the gate. "Major says he can give you ten minutes," he said. "Leave your bike there, Chalky'll keep an eye on it."

"Thanks, Chalky. You really are a pet," murmured Kathleen sweetly as she swept past him.

She noticed that Bill seemed ill-at-ease, as he conducted her towards the Nissen hut which apparently served as the camp headquarters. As they reached the door, he paused before knocking. "Listen, Kath. If you've got yourself into a bit of bother with one of our lads, it'll be a sight better if you take it up with him rather than going to the commandant about it. That is, as long as it's not one of the married men." Then, as Kathleen stared at him in complete bewilderment, he grew even more serious. "It's not one of them Ities, is it? Oh, blimey, lass, what were you thinking?"

"It's nothing like that," Kathleen blurted out, turning scarlet. "How daft do you think I am?"

"Oh, okay. Sorry, got the wrong end of the stick," mumbled Bill, equally embarrassed. "Only if you ever did have any trouble with any of 'em, you come and tell me, and I'll sort 'em out, right?" He really was a sweetheart, even if he was as thick as a plank sometimes.

Without waiting for her to answer, he tapped on the door of the hut, and ushered her inside. "Miss Newkirk, sir," he announced.

"Yes, thank you, Evans," replied the major, a tall, thin type with a receding hairline. He had been sitting behind his desk, but stood up to greet his visitor. "You can wait outside. Now, what can I do for you, young lady?"

Kathleen glanced around the interior of the hut. It was sparsely furnished; two desks, a couple of chairs, and a row of filing cabinets along the back wall. Mismatched net curtains on the windows, and an under-watered potted palm in the corner, did nothing to dispel the impression that this was a temporary accommodation, and had been so for a very long time. Major Fiske had something of a stop-gap look about him, too, but he seemed good-natured enough.

Gathering her courage together, Kathleen rushed into her explanation. "It's to do with one of your prisoners, who works out at Stokes Farm," she started off.

"Ah. I see," murmured Fiske. The weary look which crossed his face was expressive enough; he'd made the same assumption as had Bill. It was on the tip of Kathleen's tongue to give him a right telling off for it, but she resisted. No point in putting his back up. She fumbled in her pocket.

"I think this belongs to him," she said. "I found it yesterday, just where he's been working."

Fiske had the grace to blush. He took the wallet from her, and extracted the photograph to examine it. "Yes, it seems fairly obvious. I'm sure he'll be very pleased to get it back. Can you tell me his name?"

"I don't know the prisoners all that well," replied Kathleen.

"Well, never mind. It'll be in our records." He laid the wallet down on his desk. "It's jolly decent of you to bring it here yourself, and so very promptly, too. I'll be sure to return it to its rightful owner as soon as..."

"Can't I do it myself?" Kathleen broke in. Then it was her turn to blush, at the surprised look of disapproval Fiske turned on her

"My dear young woman, it's out of the question," he replied. "These men are enemy soldiers, we can't let them come into contact with civilians."

"Even though we work on the same farm, and spent two days grubbing in the same potato field?"

"That's a different matter entirely." Fiske tilted his head, regarding her with a slight frown. "I don't quite understand. Is this man special to you in some way?"

"Not him." Kathleen gestured towards the wallet on the desk. "It's them. His mam, and his little sisters." She felt a sudden prickle of tears in her eyes; she blinked, and hurried on. "I never thought about it before, but the Jerries must have families at home, just like our boys, and they probably miss 'em something terrible, same as we do. My brother Peter...well, he's a prisoner in Germany, and I haven't seen him for years, so I know how they feel."

It wasn't much of an explanation, but the major's air of disapproval softened somewhat. "We Army chaps are not entirely devoid of human feeling, you know, Miss Newkirk. I have a brother myself, as it happens." He thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll tell you what. I'll have the chap brought in, and hand it over now, while you're still here. That seems an acceptable compromise, don't you think?"

He went to the door, and opened it. "Evans, come here a moment. You're usually in charge of the Stokes Farm work detail, am I right? Who are the men who make up that detail?"

"Sir, there's two Italians, Malaparte and Rossi, plus Ahrens from the German side," replied Bill.

"That's the chap we want. Well-behaved character, is he?"

"Generally speaking, sir." Bill sent a reproachful look towards Kathleen, who had no trouble reading it: _An Italian would have been bad enough, but a Jerry...?_

"Good. Go and fetch him over. And kindly remove that look from your face. I do apologise, Miss Newkirk. It's dreadful how some men jump to conclusions."

"It is, isn't it?" said Kathleen; and in spite of her discomfiture, her lips twitched.

Five minutes passed before Bill returned, accompanied by the young German, who marched in as if on parade, and stood to attention in front of the commandant. His aspect was almost expressionless, but his eyes widened at sight of Kathleen, sitting demurely to one side.

"At ease, Ahrens," said Fiske. "I believe you're acquainted with Miss Newkirk, from Stokes Farm?"

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant_." Ahrens glanced at her, puzzled and wary.

"Yes, well, the young lady has been so good as to come all the way here to personally return something she found, which she thinks might belong to you." Fiske picked up the wallet, and held it out.

A wave of colour flooded the young man's face as he reached out for it. Without a word, he gently took out the snapshot and gazed at it, lost to everything else. Then he recalled himself.

"_Danke. Ich_...I - I thank you," he stammered, turning to Kathleen.

"That's all right," she replied awkwardly. "I thought very likely you'd be missing it."

"_Ja_." He hesitated, with a look at Fiske, then took a step towards Kathleen. "Please, I show you. _Meine Mutter_." His fingertip hovered, close to the woman's face. "Johanna, and Lottchen."

"They look nice," said Kathleen. She didn't dare ask where they were now. There were some questions best left alone.

The German boy and the English girl lingered over the little family portrait. Then Fiske brought the moment to a close. "All right, now, Ahrens, I'm sure you're obliged to Miss Newkirk. I suggest you take better care of it in future, you might not be so lucky another time. You can go back to the barracks now."

"_Jawohl. Danke, Herr Kommandant_." Ahrens saluted, smiled shyly at Kathleen, and took himself off, accompanied by a gobsmacked Bill.

"Well, I must say, Miss Newkirk, that went very well," observed Fiske. "They're not all bad chaps, you know, and a little kindness sometimes goes a long way. Now, I daresay you should be going. I'll see you out."

He escorted her to the gate, and offered to have one of his men drive her back to the village, but didn't press the point when she declined. Soon she was on her way, happier now than she had been on the way out.

Even though she still had to cycle across the open heath, and even though she would be dreadfully late getting to Stokes's, she was glad, ever so glad, that she'd gone herself.

* * *

Note: _ITMA _(_It's That Man Again_), was a popular BBC radio comedy of the 1940s, starring Tommy Handley.


	18. More Correspondence

Dear Pete,

I got my call-up notice a couple of days ago. Probably just as well. It's getting awkward here at Gran's, on account of one of her neighbours, Mrs Watts. She seems to have got the wrong idea. I thought I was just being polite, I swear.

Nipper Staunton says if I let him know where I'm posted for training, he might be able to put a bit of business my way. He thinks he can find a market for any bits and pieces I can lay my hands on. Could be a good little earner.

Harry.

* * *

Dear Harry,

You really are a pillock, aren't you?

Peter


	19. On The Home Front

"It's a bit on the short side, isn't it?" said Alice.

She stood on one side, and Mam on the other, both contemplating the hem of the dark blue plaid skirt Margaret had just put on. It had looked very smart on Gwennie when it was new, and done quite nicely for Alice last year; but Maggie had shot up over the last few months, outgrowing her sisters' hand-me-downs before she had a chance at them.

Mam sighed, and shook her head. "Takes after her father. I don't know what we're going to do about you, Maggie, if you don't stop growing."

"I don't do it on purpose," grumbled Maggie, slipping out of the skirt and kicking it to one side, where Lilly pounced on it.

"Maybe she could wear Artie's old school trousers," she giggled.

"He wore them out at the knees," said Mam. "They might do for a pair of shorts for Noel, next year." She contemplated Maggie with a thoughtful frown. "If we let down your gymslip, and put a new panel down each side, it should last another year. You'll have to have a couple of decent blouses, though. I'll not have you going to school looking like a gypsy."

"She needs a winter mac," Alice pointed out. "And she barely fits into her nighty."

"There's Kath's old one put away," replied Mam. "It should just about fit."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Not the green striped thing?"

"Well, it's not like you'll be dancing down the street in it, with the neighbours looking on. But if you'd rather, you can have one of those old nightshirts your dad left here," said her mother, just as if she thought Maggie might accept the offer.

Maggie scowled, and muttered something under her breath which her relatives understood to mean capitulation, although it could just as easily have been a promise to instigate a revolt as soon as she was old enough.

"What about shoes?" she added sulkily. "I've only got plimsolls."

"Them we'll probably have to get new, and for Noel and Lilly as well," said Mam. "That's if we can find any."

Shoes were always a problem. By means of careful management, and strict adherence to the "make do and mend" principle (which was nothing new in this household), Mrs Newkirk always had a few clothing coupons on hand for essentials such as footwear; but with the war now nearing the end of its fourth year, it was a rare occasion when new shoes could even be found. Every so often, a rumour would fly around about a limited supply, available at this or that store, close to home or halfway across London; and Mam or Alice would race to get there, usually arriving just as the last pair was sold.

Mam's eyebrows drew in. "Harry left some clothes at your gran's house. He said Arthur could have them, seeing as he'll not be needing them in the army. There might be something that'll do for you, Maggie, with a bit of making over. He always dresses well, our Harry, so..." She tapered off into silence, as if she was thinking of other things. After a few seconds, she went on, in a matter-of-fact tone: "It's long past time we went to see Granny, anyway. She likes to have you all visit."

"No, she doesn't," said Lilly. "Last time we went, she put newspapers down, so we wouldn't track mud on the carpet."

"Which is fair enough. She's getting on, and with her gout and all, she can't be always tidying up after a lot of mucky youngsters who can't be bothered wiping their feet. I'll pop a note in the mail tomorrow, and let her know we'll call Sunday week." Mam spoke with finality; there would be no argument. "In the meantime, there's a jumble sale on Saturday, over at Canley, and as I've got my day off, we can all go over. There might be something there."

The mood brightened at once. Jumble sales were always fun; you never knew what unexpected treasures might be found amongst the piles of old clothes, mismatched crockery, books and bric-a-brac. Even better, Mam, distracted by the thrill of the hunt for decent clothes, was a little more likely to allow a few less useful, but far more desirable items to slip in amongst the family purchases: items such as the shell-covered box ("A Present from Llandudno") which now took pride of place on Alice's chest of drawers; or the ancient feather-and-lace fan the younger girls still argued over - it had lost most of its feathers, but a few chips of real mother-of-pearl still clung to the black lacquered handle.

It meant an early start, if they were to get to Canley before all the best things were snapped up. Seven o'clock on Saturday morning found the children ready to go, all but Alice. She had always been a little fussy about her appearance, and even for such a mundane outing as this, she took the time to do her hair like Vivien Leigh's in "Waterloo Bridge", or as near as she could manage. Her satisfaction with the result stood up to the suppressed giggles of her younger sisters, although it wavered slightly at the gleam of amusement in her mother's eye.

"Ready at last? Now where's Noel got to? Just like his brothers, you take your eye off him for one minute...oh, there you are. Artie, we're off now. Are you going out?"

"Thought I'd go round to Smudger's," said Arthur, coming down the stairs. "I'll be home for tea."

"Make sure you lock up." Mam had to stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, because he was taller than Harry now; almost as tall as Peter. Without conscious intent, her fingers closed momentarily on the sleeve of his thin knitted jumper.

"I will. Cheerio, then." Arthur followed her to the door, and watched as they hurried off to catch the bus. Noel and Maggie ran ahead, but Lilly, who had got very clingy since her daylight-bombing scare a couple of months ago, stayed close to Mam and Alice.

Arthur waited till they'd gone round the corner, then went back indoors to finish his breakfast. There was still a little tea in the pot, over-brewed and bitter; he didn't fancy it. But thin, lukewarm porridge with a teaspoonful of jam on top, was appetising enough for a healthy and hungry young man. He wolfed it down, then headed for the front door, grabbing his coat and cap on the way. But he stopped in his tracks, right on the threshold.

A man was standing in front of the house; well-dressed in a rather flashy way, although rather dishevelled at present; no longer young, but still fairly handsome in spite of a general air of being past his prime. He swayed back and forth, gazing around as if trying to remember whether he was actually supposed to be here. Arthur's shoulders dropped; then he straightened them again.

"Mam's not home," he said.

The visitor peered at him. "I'll wait," he mumbled.

"What d'you want?"

"I got her message."

It was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to tell him to sod off; but he restrained himself. Mam had sent a note, to tell him Harry was called up. From the look of things, he'd celebrated the news by going on one of his sprees. Left to himself, chances were the old bugger would head off to the nearest pub, get even more Brahms-and-Liszt than he already was, and end up falling in the canal. Artie sighed, and stepped back to let his father come indoors.

Albert Newkirk hadn't been seen in Esk Road for several months. It wasn't unusual; the role of devoted father didn't suit him. At irregular intervals, when one or other of his shady enterprises paid off, he would remember his responsibilities, and an envelope would turn up at the house. Mam was never very happy about it, but rather than let her children go without, she accepted his contributions and didn't look too closely at where the money came from.

As for the kids, they didn't mind if he stayed away. When he chose, he could turn on an easy charm, as useful in his backroom commercial dealings as in chatting up any fancy piece who caught his eye. But his family rarely saw that side of him; in their eyes he was a daunting presence, indifferent when sober, and a real misery guts when he was drinking. He'd never been violent, as far back as Artie could remember; but it always felt as though the possibility wasn't far away.

He tottered past his son and went into the front room, impervious to Arthur's attempts to steer him straight towards the kitchen. With a low groan, and still wearing his overcoat, he dropped into the nearest armchair. "God, I'm dry," he grumbled.

"I doubt that," muttered Arthur.

"None of your lip, my boy. Where's your mum got to?"

"She's over at Canley. Won't be back for hours."

Albert uttered a soft grunt. "Any chance of a cup of tea?"

Arthur gazed at him, then without a word strode off to the kitchen. The teapot was still on the table; he put it straight on the hob, over a low flame. The dregs would do for the old bastard, in the chipped mug. And he wasn't getting any sugar in it, either.

He poured it out, splashed in a couple of drops of tinned milk which turned the brew from nearly black to a dark furniture-polish brown, and took it to the front room. He'd only been gone a couple of minutes, but it was long enough for Albert, slumped in his armchair, to doze off. Artie put the mug down, and sat down on the sofa opposite, regarding the old man with an unfilial glitter in his eyes.

_I could just take off, and leave him to sleep it off_, he thought. He'd made plans with Smudger, they were going to mend his brother's old motorcycle; maybe even make a few improvements. He'd be letting Smudge down if he didn't go. Anyway, it wasn't like old Bert was a guest; he was part of the family, and he didn't need anyone to stay and keep him company.

Artie half-rose from his seat. "You still awake, Dad?" he whispered.

Softly as he spoke, it was enough. Bert had always been a light sleeper. His head jerked up, and he stared at Arthur with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. His facial muscles had relaxed as he drowsed, allowing the skin to sag. "Oh, it's you," he mumbled. "Thought you were your brother for a moment there."

"Not likely," replied Arthur flatly, "seeing he's in Germany."

"And the other one's off, too."

"Harry."

"Mm. Won't be long, it'll be your turn, you and the little 'un."

Arthur gave an uneasy twitch of his shoulders. "Noel won't have to go. The war'll be over before he's old enough."

"The next one, then. There's always a next one," said Bert. "But you don't want to go, son. You don't want to go. The stories I could tell you...it's no game out there, you know. It's no place for a young bloke to be sent...no place for anyone..."

He trailed off. After a few seconds of silence, he drew a deep breath, and elbowed himself into a more upright position. "Where's that cup of tea, then?"

Artie glanced at the old mug with its unappealing contents. "It's gone cold," he said abruptly. "I'll make fresh." And before his dad could say anything, he hurried off to the kitchen.

He no longer had any idea of sneaking off to Smudger's. Some instinct, barely recognised or understood, warned him against leaving his father on his own. But a knot of anxiety formed in his stomach, as he put the kettle on and rinsed out the teapot; and he felt a lot less grown up than he had an hour ago.

Hopefully Mam would get home soon; because Artie had a feeling his dad was in the mood to confide in someone, and he didn't want that someone to be him.


	20. Brothers

_My apologies for the very long delay in posting this chapter. It wasn't easy to write. _

For almost an hour, the only sound in the little sitting room had come from the clock on the mantel. Bert had never liked that clock. One of Mary's aunts had given it to them for a wedding present; an ugly, cheap, fussy-looking piece, topped with a fat, self-satisfied cherub whose skin of gold paint was gradually flaking away. Its ticking varied from beat to beat, both in rhythm and volume, and the chime, when it worked at all, had a thin, tinny tone, as though it couldn't be bothered. It didn't even keep good time. But Mary wouldn't get rid of it, because it was a present, and Aunty's feelings would be hurt if she ever came to visit and her clock wasn't there.

Arthur didn't seem to mind it. Maybe he was used to it, or maybe he was just too wrapped up in his homework. Once he'd finished making the tea, he had fetched his school satchel, and settled down on the old sofa with his knees propped up to support a shabby, ink-stained textbook.

"What's that all about?" asked Bert, just to break the silence.

"Algebra," replied Arthur, without raising his eyes from his book.

"Haven't you got anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon?"

"Yep."

He didn't only look like Peter. This one was a proper little smart-arse, too.

"You're still going to school, then?" Bert persisted. "When I was your age..."

The boy cut him off. "I'm not fifteen yet. Anyway, Mam wants me and Alice to stay on and get our School Certificates."

"And what good does she think that'll do you?" Bert uttered a short, hoarse laugh. "It never did nothing for young Pete, did it? He still ended up right in it, just like every other poor sod."

Arthur glanced up, his eyebrows drawing in. "Peter never got his leaving certificate," he said. "He was too busy trying to make a living, seeing as he had to leave home."

It took a moment for Bert to work out what the lad was talking about. "Not your brother," he said tersely. "I meant your uncle. You must know about your uncle Peter. I'm sure I told you about him."

"You never did," retorted Arthur; then, a little less belligerently, he added, "Gran's got his picture on the wall in her front room, but I don't know anything about him, only that he was killed in the war."

The words had an awful finality, and instinctively Bert flinched. "That's it?"

A deep red flush rose to Arthur's cheeks. "Well, I wasn't even born then," he mumbled.

He met his father's gaze with a defensive lift of his chin. But Bert felt more bewildered than angry. How could the boy not know? He was the image of his uncle; he even had Pete's eyes, sharp and bright under straight dark brows. The only difference was in expression. Arthur always looked at his dad like he didn't want to be anywhere around him. Not like Pete...

* * *

_"Cheers, Bert. Still here, then?"_

_"You know how it is - can't never get a cab when you want one. Thought you was still on sick call."_

_"Only went and got better, didn't I? Typical, Blanco Beale's got gangrene. Jammy beggar's lost half his foot, so he gets a ticket to Blighty, and I'm sent back to the shooting gallery. And Sergeant-Major was so bleedin' happy to see me back, he's put me straight into tonight's wire party."_

_"Nice of him. Well, Pete, don't let it get you down."_

_"Not going to. It's only the good die young, so I've not got nothing to worry about. Lend us some fags, will you?"_

_"Have you run out again?"_

_"Smoked 'em all at the hospital. There's sod all else to do down there."_

_"Is that a fact? I heard there's a nurse..."_

_"Give over. She's fifty if she's a day. Mind you, she's always ready to oblige, if a bloke fancies a buttered scone with his cup of tea."_

_"Especially if the bloke in question turns on the old Newkirk charm, eh?"_

_"There's no harm giving the old darling something to write home about, is there? Now, about those fags..."_

_"What makes you think I've got any going spare?"_

_"I know you have, because I just saw old George on the way here, and he told me you just got a parcel from your missus. Seems to me if a man's lucky enough to have a beautiful little woman at home who goes to the trouble of sending him the necessities of life, it's only decent of him to share with his less fortunate chums. Specially with his poor little brother who he's supposed to be looking after."_

_"Leave it out, Pete. Here, take 'em. But that's your bleedin' lot. Next time you can cadge off some other beggar. Now clear off, so I can get some kip before stand-to."_

_"Righto. Sleep tight, and ta for the fags."_

_"Oh, and Pete - keep your head down out there tonight."_

_"Always do."_

* * *

From somewhere within the mechanism of the mantel clock came a dull click; but no chime followed, just a faint, juddering whirr, before it returned to its sullen count of seconds.

"Just lads, we were. No idea what we were in for. They never said nothing in training, else none of us would have went on the bleedin' boat, would we? They just gave us a rifle and bayonet, and set us to killing a bag of straw till we knew how to do it right. Waste of bloody time, because how's a man supposed to get close enough to the enemy to run him through, what with the muck, and the wire, and the bloody machine-guns knocking us down like nine-pins?"

Bert slumped in his chair, his eyes half-closed. He was starting to sober up, a process which he usually preferred to sleep through; but not today, not while his mind was teeming with memories. Better to stay awake, and to keep talking.

"Course, that was only during a show. Mostly we just stayed in the trenches. Front line, then reserve, then a few days' rest, if we were lucky. Then back to the front again. There was some blokes said they'd rather go over the top. Couldn't stand all the endless hanging round, up to their knees in stinking mud and hoping to God almighty that the next shell went over their heads and hit some other poor bugger. Personally, I never worried about getting hit. All the old lags used to tell us, the one that hit you, you wouldn't hear it coming, so no point in ducking every time one went over. As for the mud, and the stink, and the vermin...well, a man can get used to anything if it goes on long enough. Never could stand treading on a mouse, though. They used to fall in the trench, and couldn't get out, so they were always under foot."

Arthur stared at him, puzzled but still wary. His algebra book lay open on his lap, but he was no longer even pretending to study.

"I suppose it was safe in the trench, anyway," he mumbled, after a long pause.

Bert snorted in derision. "Safe? Oh, yes, it was safe. So long as Fritz didn't toss over a grenade, or drop a shell in your mess kit during breakfast, and so long as you kept your head down so the snipers couldn't see you, and so long as there wasn't any gas, and provided you didn't come a cropper through sheer bloody carelessness, you were perfectly safe. But all it took was a bit of bad luck, or some thick-headed geezer forgetting where he was for a moment, and next thing you know..."

* * *

"_Cor struth, Pete, what the bloody hell happened to you?"_

"_It's bloody Chalky White's fault. He was on his way back from the karzi, and of course, being Chalky, he's not watching where he's going, so he walks straight into one of the sump holes. As he's going in, he bloody grabs hold of the first thing at hand, which is me, and he bloody pulls me in with him. It's not bleedin' funny, Bert, so you can stop laughing. I could have bloody drowned."_

"_Well, only yesterday you were saying you'd do anything for a bath, so now you've had one."_

"_Diving head first into a sodding great hole full of muck wasn't what I had in mind. God knows how many bloody frogs I swallowed. Chalky reckons he got a couple of leeches up his todger. Serves him flamin' well right if he did."_

"_You've neither of you got anything to grouse about. There's plenty worse off. Did you hear about poor bloody George?"_

"_No, what's the daft old so-and-so done now?"_

"_One of the lads on the last draft decided he'd had enough, and thought he'd try for a cushy. So he goes down to Salvation Alley, where that sniper's been keeping us on our toes, and starts waving his hand above the sandbags, thinking if he gets a couple of fingers shot off, that'll do him nicely. Well, old George spots him at it, and goes charging up to give him a bollocking for it. He tells him, if I catch you trying to get shot again, I'll do the bloody job myself. Trouble was, George was so bleedin' livid, he forgot to keep his head down, and just as he finished, he caught one, right above his ear. Dead as a doornail."_

"_Dead? Old George? Oh, no, that's terrible."_

_"Never thought you was that fond of him."_

"_Fond of him? The old sod owes me five bob."_

_"You're a hard-hearted young beggar, Pete. Cor blimey, you don't half stink. You'd better go and change out of that mucky kit."_

_"Oh, charming. Well, I know when I'm not welcome. If you want me, I'll be in the dug-out, having a little weep. I'm really going to miss that five bob."_

* * *

"You couldn't let it get you down," mumbled Bert. "No sense in getting all emotional about it, else it'd send you round the bend. Best thing to do is to call it bad luck, have a laugh, and then forget about it."

"Seems to me there wasn't much to laugh about," said Arthur, tilting his head in thought, just like Pete used to do.

Bert uttered a soft grunt. "You had to laugh, otherwise you'd end up crying. It wasn't just your mates. The next unlucky beggar could be you. But it wasn't no good going on about it. The only thing that worried me was...well, never mind."

"What was it?" asked Arthur, after a few seconds.

But his father, lost in memories again, didn't reply.

* * *

_"Tell you something, Bert, stand-to every morning and night's playing Old Harry with my feet."_

_"Keep your voice down, else Sergeant-Major'll give you a right kicking."_

_"All right, but if his boots hurt as much as these useless bloody..."_

_"Never mind that, Pete. Listen, there's something I've been thinking about. I want you to do something for me. Just in case...well, you know, if anything happens to me."_

_"Such as what?"_

_"Oh, for gawdsake, Pete, what do you think? The ruddy Germans aren't throwing flowers at us, are they? ...Yes, sir, sorry, sir, shutting up now, sir... I'm serious, Pete. If I go west, what's going to happen to Mary and the little chap? Someone has to look out for them."_

_"Albert, I'm hurt. I'm hurt because you think you have to ask. Of course I'll look after them for you, if it comes to. Which it won't."_

_"I know that. Of course it won't. But I just thought I'd mention it, just to be on the safe side." _

_"Well, seeing as we're on the subject, you might do the same by me, if anything happens."_

_"I would, if you had anyone to look after."_

_"Course I do. Florrie Evans from Hackney, and Maud - you know, the opera singer - and Lady Angela, of course. Oh, and Fred Barker, at the Eagle and Crown."_

_"Fred Barker?"_

_"He's my bookie."_

_"You really are a bad 'un, Pete."_

_"True. But like I always say..."_

_"Yes, I know - only the good die young..."_

* * *

His father's silent reverie had apparently made Arthur uncomfortable. He fidgeted, and after a couple of false starts, he said tentatively, "What about Uncle Peter? What happened to him?"

It took a while for Bert to find the words. "There was a show. We went over, just before dawn...hardly got ten yards, when a whizz-bang landed close by. Knocked me for six...didn't wake up till hours after, in the medical tent. Next day, Joe Barton came in for something or other, and he told me Pete hadn't come back. Nobody saw him after the first charge. He wasn't reported wounded, or... At first I thought, maybe he got lost, ended up in the wrong part of the trench...maybe he was taken prisoner..." He trailed off, then added softly, "I was sure he'd turn up. When they sent me back to the front line, I thought, he'll be there, large as life, laughing his head off over the fright he gave us..."

In the long silence which followed, the mantel clock gave another hiccough and whirr, marking off another hour. Bert lifted his head, peering at the dial, then with a soft grunt pushed himself up out of the chair. "It's getting on. Time I was off. I'll call and see your mum another day."

Arthur jumped up, sending his school book flying. "She'll be home any minute. Can't you wait a bit longer? I'll put the kettle on..."

"No, don't bother." It wasn't tea Bert wanted. He brushed the boy aside, and with unsteady feet made his way to the front door. Arthur followed him, but stopped at the threshold, hesitating.

"Which way are you going?" he asked. "Only I was going to call on one of my mates this afternoon, and it's not too late for it. If it's on your way..."

But his father waved him back. "I don't think so. I can find my way to the pub without your help." Without another word, he plodded off, leaving Artie staring after him.

He was a good lad, no doubt about it. But there was no good to be had in getting fond of him, any more than his brothers. That way, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much, when their turn came.

* * *

**Notes:**

Under the Education Act of 1936, the school leaving age in the United Kingdom was raised from 14 to 15. The twins would have had to stay at school another year after that to take the School Certificate exam.

The third battle of Ypres, also known as Passchendaele, took place between June and November 1917. Casualty figures are disputed, but most estimates put the number of dead and wounded on the plus side of half a million men.

Conscription was introduced in Britain in January 1916. Initially married men were exempt, but this exemption was withdrawn by May of the same year.

Sump holes were commonly dug along the trenches, to provide drainage.

"A cushy one" was British Army slang during the First World War, referring a minor wound which was just bad enough for a man to be sent down the line or discharged. Robert Graves, in _Goodbye To All That_, describes how some soldiers would stick their hands over the parapet in the hope of receiving a "cushy" and going home. The detail about mice in the trenches also comes from Graves; there were frogs, too, apparently.

"Whizz-bang": slang term for German field artillery shells, in particular shells from the 77mm field gun.

For further reading, apart from Graves I highly recommend _Hell's Bells and Mademoiselles_ by Joe Maxwell, and _Voices from the Trenches: Letters to Home_, by Noel Carthew.


End file.
